April, 33 AD

Midnight drooped down into the garden, the air cool and damp. Only a few specks of resplendent stars scattered the heavens. The branchy olive trees swayed gently and leaves fluttered softly in the breeze. Scents of olive wood lingered in the air.

Everything was quiet and forgotten. Except for one Man, Jesus. The desperate pleas of a Man on His knees filtered through the once tranquil air, “Father, if You are willing, please take this cup of suffering away from Me. Yet, I want Your will to be done, not Mine.” His suffering was apparent as His sweat became drops of blood that trickled onto the ground in front of him.

The crunching of dried twigs and leaves under heavy feet was becoming more perceptible. A detachment of soldiers marched up to the Man in the garden, carrying torches and weapons. The light of their torches flickered above their heads.

The shadows of the trees became alive, distorting into striking silhouettes that moved gracefully and dangerously with the armed men. The silent night became animate with sound: the quiet, random rustling of leaves, the clanging of metal weapons against armor, and the murmuring of the wind.

The flaming torches’ light broke free into the clearing as the detachment stepped into it. Approaching Jesus was Judas, one of His disciples, who went up to Him, calling, "Greetings, Rabbi!” He embraced Jesus and kissed Him. He stepped back with averted eyes, hunching his shoulders.

Peter drew his sword, lifting it high above his head and struck a soldier that wanted to take Jesus away, cutting off his ear. Jesus intervened and scolded Peter. Stepping closer to the soldier, Jesus took the ear in His hand, lovingly touched his face, and healed his ear. To escape persecution, the other disciples that were with Jesus fled in fear from the garden.

The officers of the Jews arrested Jesus and bound Him, marching Him to the high priest Annas. A soldier beat Him, another mocked Him, demeaning Him. Humiliating Him further, they blindfolded Him, struck Him in the face asking Him to prophesy.

Finding Him guilty of blasphemy, Governor Pilate sent Him to be scourged. They hauled Him to the quadrangle. Stripping Him of His clothing, they tied His hands to a post above His head.

A tall, musclebound Roman legionnaire stepped forward, the pebbles underneath his feet crunching loudly, he held a flagrum in his large hand. Standing behind Jesus with his bull neck looking down at the Man in front of him, several heavy, leather thongs, each one of which had pieces of bone or metal attached to it, hung to the floor.

He lifted his graceless hand with the heavy whip above his head and brought it down with full force. A brave silent cry escaped Jesus's lips as He stumbled with the force that came down on Him. Lash after lash passed and after the first few, the thongs cut through His skin. Again and again the violent lashes fell. Across Jesus’ shoulders, across His back, and across His legs.

Gasps of horror came from the onlookers. His mother, Mary, fell to the ground sobbing, the sorrow too much for her heart and soul to bear.

The blows continued relentlessly, cutting deeper into His flesh. Blood gushed incessantly from the wounds and ran down His body, seeping into the ground. Large, deep bruises were caused by the metal and bone ripping through His skin.

The undeniable scent of blood filled the air, reeking of raw iron and earth. The torture continued. Successive whips fell, one after the other, breaking the skin mercilessly. The skin hung in long ribbons, an atrocious sight for anyone who beheld it.

Unrecognizable, a mass of bleeding flesh. Finally, it stopped. Drenched in His own blood, Jesus slumped to the ground after being untied.

For their amusement, they threw a purple robe across His shoulders and placed a stick in His hands as a scepter. A plaited crown with long thorns was forced down into His scalp.

Relentlessly bleeding, blood ran in streams over His face and into His eyes. He just stared at them as they mocked and struck Him in the face. They took the stick from His hand and struck Him across the head, forcing the thorns deeper into His scalp.

When they had had enough, the mockery not quite as satisfying anymore, they returned His clothes, getting Him ready to march to Golgotha, Place of the skull.

They tied the heavy cross to His shoulders. The rough wood of the beam dug deeply and painfully into Jesus's mutilated skin and muscles.

They started their slow journey along the Via Dolorosa. In His weakened state due to pain and suffering, blood loss and fatigue, He stumbled and fell.

In a hurry to get the crucifixion done, a soldier appointed Simon of Cyrene from the crowd to carry His cross. On top of the hill, Simon was instructed to put the wooden beam on the ground. Jesus, still bleeding, in pain and in shock, was thrown backwards, His shoulders squarely against the wood.

The legionnaire bent down and took out his mallet and the heavy, square, wrought-iron nails that had been prepared for the crucifixion.

He placed the nail in position. Then, with great force, he drove the nail through Jesus' wrist and deep into the post. Agonizing pain rushed through His body with each succeeding blow to the nail. Moving to the other side, the legionnaire performed the same steps, no emotion on his face. No anger, no sadness, no joy. Nothing.

The cross-arm was then hoisted onto the upright beam. He took Jesus' left foot and pressed it backwards against His right foot. Then with both feet extended, the toes down, he drove the nail through the arch of both. Jesus cried out at the excruciating pain as His body's weight sank down into the nails.

The Roman soldiers laughed with joy and danced around, gambling for His seamless garment.

“Father, forgive them for they know not what they do,"Jesus said, fighting to breathe.

After a long torturous sleepless night, an illegal trial, false witnesses, harrowing scourging, bearing His cross on a broken body, being impaled with wrought-iron nails, and having hung six hours on the cross in agony, He said, "It is finished. Father! Into Thy hands I commit My spirit."

As Jesus blew out His last breath, a terrible rumble shook the earth and rocks crumbled down the mountain.