See the crown of thorns the legionnaires place upon His head.
Watch as they strip Him of His clothes, and lash Him with rope and leather.
Do not turn away, as they take nails and hammers of iron, and affix Him to the instrument of His execution.
The first is endured with the gritting of teeth and mere gasps,
The second brings forth an agonizing cry,
The third and fourth, no cry these but a shriek torn from bloodied lips.
Sweat and blood pour from His body,
The cross is raised as He writhes and continues to scream,
His muscles bulge and strain, but they are useless, helpless.
The screams continue for a very long time.
When His body gives up the last of its strength, He can only moan, and endure, as He helplessly hangs from iron and wood and pain.
So much pain for so long.
The blood drips down and mingles with stale, crusted sweat, into His eyes, from His wounds, stinging His eyes.
It is over. It is done. At last His gaze turns heavenward, with the words:
“Father, into Your hands I commit My spirit.”
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