The Man from Cyrene by Sharon Jacob

I take long, quick strides kicking up dust and sand and filthy grime on that lone road. I’m on urgent business all the way from Cyrene, Libya. And I take in the sight of the rolling countryside as the raw heat of the sun beats down upon my covered head. The country has its own beauty with its gently rising hills, the sprawling plains dotted with flocks of sheep, and little children playing games of their own creation. I purposefully make my way towards the city gates, with beads of sweat running down my face and my beard. The imposing gates loom in my field of vision; grand, ancient – and open. A breath escapes me as I stop to take in the view of the grandiose gates that seem to nod their heads at me bidding me draw nearer. Jerusalem, here I come! I clutch my robes, and hustle to the gates. As I draw closer, numerous Roman soldiers decked in red and gold and spears and helmets appear in my field of vision – with sheathed swords and polished armour; some lean lazily on their spears, some are engaged in deep conversation, others crouch on the ground rolling dice. The muggy air is laced with anticipation, and I feel the cool of a sudden breeze against my forehead — a breeze that carries with it a vague chant. 

And then I hear it. The dull echo morphs into clear words: Crucify! Crucify Him!

Words that would change my life; words that I would keep hearing for the rest of my days. 

I slow down, and gingerly move towards the gates – on the lookout for a quiet way into the city. I do not want to be dragged into whatever is happening. Yet a strange force beckons me closer. I fight the urge and the burning inquisitiveness growing within me; and I spy a narrow entrance towards the side of the main gates – unguarded and free. I slip in and let out a quiet sigh of relief. Jerusalem, at last! 

I make my way into the city through a narrow little street – almost empty. A few people mumble in hushed tones, walking briskly toward some destination unknown to me. A handful of sellers of all kinds of fruit and wares and clothes call out to me, anxious to grab my attention. But I cannot drown out the steady rise of those words that seem to grow louder and louder: Crucify Him! Crucify Him!

I turn my gaze towards a fruit seller and beckon to him, “What’s happening here today?”

The man looks at me quizzically. “Are you new here? Don’t you know? They’re going to crucify Jesus today,” he states simply.

The name seems familiar. “Who’s He? What did He do?”

The man leans toward me, glances about him furtively before he opens his mouth. “He is the Messiah. He healed the blind, the sick, the lame and He rose people up from the dead. He even healed lepers. He is a good man. He healed my daughter too. You see, she was born lame, but now she walks and leaps and runs.” The man stops to read my face, and quickly wipes a tear from his eyes. “But they’re taking Him away now to crucify Him. The Chief Priests don’t like Him,” he pauses. “You’ve come to Jerusalem during strange times.” And with this, he turns away from me and starts arranging his wares nonchalantly. 

I turn away slowly, and make my way down a nearby street, unaware of the steadily increasing drone – “Crucify Him! Crucify Him!” Suddenly, I am out on the main road leading into the city; there is a crowd jostling against me, enveloping me – and no way out. A sea of sweaty faces, tear-stained faces, angry faces and curious faces greet me, and I am pushed to the fringe of the crowd. Then I see it – a blood-stained man stumbling under the weight of a heavy wooden cross. His back is bare and bleeding, split open by the teeth of a cruel whip. A stone-faced Roman soldier prods the man with the blunt edge of his spear, willing him to move forward and faster. The man falls. The crowd jeers. Another soldier scans the crowd – and his eyes meet mine. I look around for a place to hide. A little smile dances on his stern lips; in two strides he is at my side, and he pulls me closer to the centre of attention, closer to the bloody figure, closer to the place I want to be far away from. The blood-stained man reels again under the cruel cross; sweat and blood flow down the side of his face, his arms, his neck. And the solder motions to me; it is clear. I’ve been chosen to carry this man’s cross. 

As my fingers touch the rough splintered wood, a jolt of electricity passes through me – and I stand transfixed, unmoving and the weight of the moment bears down on me. I glance at the man to whom the cross belongs – He is mangled; skin peeling off his scourged back; a wreath of thorns on His head, and His blood is everywhere – on His eyelids, His lips, His face; I cannot make out His features; His face is marred, beaten, swollen – but there is something about those eyes. His eyes capture me, holding me in a warm embrace, at the same time, searching and looking deeply and intently at my very soul. Without a word, His eyes seem to comfort me; I feel bare and naked like a new-born baby yet swaddled with a cloak of safety – even in the crowd replete with Romans wielding their swords and spears, bearded men young and old shouting, “Crucify Him!” And yet, a strange serenity is about His whole being as He stumbles along the narrow path stained by His blood. Oddly, I feel honoured. Almost as if I’m in the presence of a King. 

Then I feel the weight of the cross. As the soldiers lay the cross on my shoulders, some unknown burden on my back is lifted; and I feel free. The Man’s eyes seem to tell me that he knows me – and I cannot help but feel that He has known me all my life. Then I follow Jesus as He staggers down the muddy road, my footsteps in His crimson footprints, and my unknown burden exchanged for His rugged cross. 

The road gradually slopes upward; and I hear His short gasps of laboured breath as we plod along the narrow way. A small group of women wail loudly; their faces are tear-stained, eyes red and swollen. But their cries are drowned out by the crowd chanting, “Crucify Him! Crucify Him!” And yet, Jesus does not retaliate; He walks quietly, gasping for breath, prodded by the spear of the soldier escorting Him. My fingers suddenly feel cool – His blood is on my hands. And a warmth spreads over me, a strange kinship with this Man I've just met. 

He seems like a good man, and I feel oddly safe around Him. He seems to know me. But why would anyone hate Him enough to kill Him? Where are we going anyway? Thoughts swirl around in my head; but all I can see is the lone blood-stained figure walking in front of me with the cruel crown of thorns on His head – and I keep trudging behind Him – my eyes on the road stained by the drops of blood that seem to generously flow from His open wounds. 

I muster my courage and turn toward the soldier who had picked me out of the crowd. “Where are we going?” I ask. 

“You’ll see.”

Someone from the crowd shouts, “They’re taking Him to Golgotha – the place of the skull.”

I grimace; sudden beads of sweat line my forehead; I shiver in the heat of the day. But Jesus staggers onward – calmly and strangely in control. And I turn to Him, and decide to keep my eyes fixed on Him; there is something about Him that comforts me – like He’s never going to leave my side. And I walk with the gnarled, rough wood on my back, unaware of time, unaware of the countless eyes watching me, unaware of anything else – it is just Jesus and me on that muddy road. 

***

The screech of a vulture shakes me out of my reverie; hardened hands pull the cross roughly off my back; and I fall to the ground in exhaustion gasping for air. We are here; and Golgotha waits to claim her share of blood. I see Jesus being led to the crest of the hillock. I see the hammer and nails that wait to torment their victim, and my eyes well up with tears; my stomach turns; my vision blurs – and then I see thick blackness as I fall to the ground. 

***

Thud. Thud. Thud. My eyes flutter open; the sun is right above my head, and I turn away from the blinding rays. My eyes alight on Jesus; He is tied to the cross lying flat on the ground. A soldier raises a hammer high above his head – and brings it down upon the nail placed on the palm of Jesus. The hammer finds the nail, and drives it deep into His palm. He groans. And I cannot see any longer; I hide my face. The hammer strikes the nail again – and the cruel sound rises upward mingled with the cry of agony that escapes His lips. I turn my face away. I cannot watch Him suffer any longer. 

I hear a grunt. The soldiers lift the cross with Jesus on it, and set it upright on the ground. They take His clothing, and cast lots for it. I glance at Jesus’ face; His blood and sweat run down the side of His head. His eyes and lips are swollen encrusted with blood, and the agony written on His face is indescribable. 

Then He speaks – clearly and softly, “Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.” The wind carries His words gently to my ears, and I am amazed. How can a man who forgives His own tormentors be deserving of such a death? He must be innocent. 

A small group of women are huddled together at a distance, their eyes never moving from Him. A few men in worn clothes stand nearby; their eyes are tired, yet constantly watching Him. Passers-by shake their heads at Him on the cross; some spit, some mock and some jeer at Him. 

An old, wizened man with a long beard, donned in long flowing robes, shouts at the top of his voice, “He saved other people! If Jesus really is the Son of God, let Him come down from the cross! Save yourself, man! Then I will believe You.” His white-clad company laughs raucously, maliciously – they seem satisfied.

A soldier nearby lets out a cry of victory – he has won the garment worn by Jesus. He puts it on, parades Himself, and bows mockingly at the man hanging on the central cross. "All Hail, King of the Jews!" The thief on the left of Jesus jeers, “If you really are the Christ, then save yourself – and us!”

The malefactor hanging on the cross to the right of Jesus laboriously lifts his head and retorts, “Do you not have the fear of God – since you are under the same sentence? And we are punished justly, for we are getting what our deeds deserve. But this man – this man has done nothing wrong.” He slowly adds, “Jesus, re- remember me when you come into Your Kingdom.”

I strain my ears to hear Jesus. And His words fall like precious pearls from His lips, “Today you will be with Me in Paradise.” The man on the right beams showing his yellowed teeth. 

I watch as the small group of women and men slowly make their way closer to the feet of Jesus; their faces are tear-stained and hopeless. Jesus looks at them as they walk closer, and He looks at them like a father looks at his children. They gather around Him; and His eyes alight on a woman with agony written on her face as if a sword has pierced her own soul – and He gently says, “Woman, behold thy son.” And turning to one of His disciples, He says, “Behold, thy mother.” Tears flow from His mother’s eyes – and she walks back with her new son by her side. The doleful company follows them. They stand nearby and keep watch over Jesus, their beloved. 

I strain to look at Jesus. Suddenly the noonday sun is blackened and snuffed out; an unnatural darkness spreads its fingers over the whole land. The Sun hides its face, and as the light fades, the soldiers rise in agitation and fear. The Centurion barks a stern order to his soldiers, but they speak in frantic tones, waving their swords and spears. For the first time, I see fear in the eyes of the group of white-robed men who shouted the loudest – Crucify Him! Crucify Him! The old, wizened man makes a hasty retreat – with sudden vigour. 

I sit on the floor, near the cross; there is nowhere else to go. All is quiet except the laboured breathing of Jesus. With every breath, He takes in, He struggles to breathe out – hoisting Himself up with His feet nailed to the cross – the excruciating pain alternating between His hands and feet. The rough cross is the only solace for His torn back. I don't know how many hours have passed. I have no business on the grounds of Golgotha, but something bids me stay. 

Suddenly, Jesus lets out a loud cry, “My God, My God – why have You forsaken Me?” A shiver passes down my spine, and my hair stands on end. I crouch with bated breath. 

Then soft words drop into my ears – “I thirst.” In the dimness, I turn myself toward Jesus – just in time to see a man dip a sponge in a vat of wine-vinegar, put it on a reed and raise it to the parched, bloody lips of Jesus. He tastes it – and exhales, “It is finished.” He seems almost satisfied. And I marvel at Him. 

It is quiet again. There is not a sound of a bird or the wind. The voices of the soldiers have died down. I hear the occasional clink of armour – as a soldier nervously shifts his weight from one foot to another. And then the grim silence is shattered; Jesus cries a loud cry; I tremble. His words ricochet all around that hillock – “Father, into Your hands I commit My Spirit!” As I watch Him, He gives up His Spirit. I hear a rumble; the ground growls, the earth trembles, and the rocks split open. The Centurion falls to his knees, “Truly this man was the Son of God! He is innocent!”

***

Soon the strange darkness clears away, and I see His face one last time – His eyes are closed and there is blood all over Him; dried blood sticks to his hands, his face, his eyes – and all over His body.

“Is He dead already?” a soldier asks his friend. 

In reply, his friend steps forward, runs his spear through Jesus’ side – and blood and water flow from his gaping wound. I turn away.

“Yes,” comes the answer. 

I bow in reverence, and make my way back down the hillock. Nobody notices me. All eyes are on Jesus. 

I walk to the gates of the city. Oddly, I feel alone. All I am left with is His blood on my tunic, on my hands, on my back where they laid His rough blood-stained cross on me. The gates, black and dreary, are cold and aloof. But something pulls at me. And then it hits me: I will never be the same again. You cannot watch the crucifixion of an innocent man and stay the same. I am a changed man. 

***

My feet walk of their own accord, and I find myself walking for days – in a daze; my business is forgotten. I can almost still feel the weight of the cross on my shoulders. I realise I’m on the beach, near the blue waters of some sea. I look around and find a boat harboured on the sand; I lean against it in exhaustion, ready to collapse. I see a man, tanned and ruddy, walking toward me with a purposeful stride. He must be a fisherman, I think to myself. Oh, this is probably his boat. I’ll try asking him for some food. As he draws closer, he seems familiar – almost like he was part of the horror of the past. And then it strikes me – this was the very same disciple whom Jesus asked to take care of His mother. I watch him closely. His face breaks into a wide grin when he sees me. 

“Hey! What are you doing here in Galilee? Didn't you help Jesus carry His cross? I was there too. My name is John. I’m with Jesus.”

“Er…yes.” If he was truly there, how is he smiling at me now? He should be heartbroken now. Only a few days have passed since that gruesome murder. Shouldn’t he be crying for Jesus now? Some friend he must be. Hmph, I think. 

“Are you okay? Haven’t you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Jesus is alive!”

“But I saw Him dying on the cross…”

“So did I; but on the third day, according to the Scriptures and the prophecies, He rose up! His tomb is empty! Mary saw Him, and He also appeared to all of us – in the flesh. He came to our upper room one day – when we least expected Him!”

I gape at John, and no words come out of my mouth. He adds, “You are welcome at our house; we meet every day. You can talk to some of the people and decide for yourself. And here is some bread and fish – you look hungry, by the way.”

I receive the basket of food from his outstretched hands and manage a nod. 

“I need to be on my way now; you can come to the upper room of the house down by the sea. It’s right down this road,” he motions to me. “You never know, Jesus might just visit us again! We're all earnestly waiting for Him," he smiles at me knowingly, then nods and walks back with a spring in his step. 

I am alone again; yet no longer do I feel lonely. Suddenly I want to believe, I want to know; the signs all add up – His meekness, His innocence, the strange darkness over the land, the sudden earthquake, the way He gave up His Spirit, the Centurion's conversion – it was all supernatural! And every fibre of my being knows. I leap; He was dead, but now He is alive. I was there; I saw Him dying on the cross, thirsty and alone, weak and in agony – but the King lives! 

I walk briskly after John with sudden renewed vigour eager to learn about this Man who changed me, who conquered the grave, who is still alive — and to see Him again!

Sharon Jacob is an Embedded Software Engineer hailing from a coastal city, Chennai, in India. When she is not reading, writing or over-working, you can find her doing planks, introspecting, or thinking about Jesus! Her Poetry has appeared in Calla Press and Pensive Journal. You can find her at https://mymusingsandiblog.wordpress.com/.