I Nailed Jesus to the Cross

People We Meet on the Way to the Cross

Executions draw crowds. They bring out the worst in men. And yet I am commanded to maintain my position on the hill called Golgotha… the place of the Skull, this place of death.

Behind me lies the narrow road winding upward from the fortress of Antonia—Pilate’s seat of judgment. Outside the city walls, with the gate open, the crowd grows. Some rushed to celebrate yet another Jewish feast, others to watch the condemned die.

Our Roman cohort—men I have served alongside since shipped to this outpost in Judea—guard the stone-paved yard of Pilate’s courtyard, the praetorium, to the precipice.

Hours earlier, standing bound and stripped to the waist, the one called King of the Jews received the lash—then his condemnation.

We flogged Him with a flagrum—a Roman whip of leather thongs studded with bone and metal. Each strike ripped away skin until blood pooled at His feet, staining the stones. Even as we spat in his face, the Jew spoke no word. With a staff, we struck him on the head, then across the face. His nose broken, we took turns hitting him with fists. And still… no response, no retaliation.

Forced to his knee by my hard shove, I secured the beam—the patibulum—onto the Jew’s shoulders. I recall his words, part of a lesson he gave months ago in the Temple courtyard.

“My yoke is easy. My burden is light.”

Light? Hardly. Upon rising with the beam, his legs shook beneath its crushing weight. With the tip of my sword as a prod, I forced him out and onto the long road through the city and to his final end. The Via Dolorosa. The way to death.

Some jeered along the way. Others wept. But none turned away from the man who, days earlier, arrived to chants of, “Hosanna! Save us! Blessed are you, Son of David!“ Now women tore their garments and wailed. Amidst such a public defeat, their sobs testified to the false hope he projected.

Rome conquers. Rome reigns. Rome crushes.

Through broken breaths, he turned to a small group of women he seemed to know well. “Daughters of Jerusalem… do not weep for… Me. No, weep… for yourselves. Weep for your—”

Before he could finish, his strength gave way, and he stumbled, dropping to His knees. Yanking a man from the crowd, I ordered Sirenian to lift the beam and help the Jew up the final incline.

Now the Jew’s crossbeam lies on the ground. Hole dug, pole ready to be raised, the Jew looks up at me. His face—beaten and swollen—still radiates a resolve not found in the two convicts stretched out beside him.

“You, soldier. What are you waiting for?”

I take two iron nails in my left fist. With my right hand, I force His fingers open. Palm up, wrist bound to the beam by leather, I set the tip of the nail above the wrist crease, between the bones of the carpus and forearm. Here, when I strike, the nail will pass through the median nerve. Pain will shoot through his arm. His hand will convulse, fingers locking into a claw.

The crowd from The Via Dolorosa has reached us and begins chanting, “Crucify him! Crucify him!”

Though some of my comrades live for the taste of blood and would have paid to serve as executioners, this assignment sickens me. It is too personal, the memories of my own blood-letting are too fresh.

Mere hours earlier, in the dark, by torchlight, our garrison located the Jew’s small rabble of followers hiding in a garden on the Mount of Olives. Betrayed by one of his own, we came prepared for conflict, and for good reason. No sooner had I stepped forward to bind him than one of his disciples attacked.

My ear—sliced off in a blur of steel—blood in my hand, I wheeled toward my men. Swords drawn, they watched for my command. This would end in blood and quickly.

Then He spoke:

“Simon, put your sword into its sheath! Shall I not drink the cup the Father has given Me? For all who take the sword will perish by the sword.”

Who speaks this way? So calm, so composed, to captors? To zealots? To soldiers?

“Do you think I cannot call on My Father, and He will send more than twelve legions of angels? But then, how would the Scriptures fulfill themselves?”

In that garden, seconds away from the massacre of him and his group, he reached out and touched my wound.

“No more of this.”

Heat. Pressure. Then a warmth rose from within my soul. The pain left. So, too, the blood. He healed me as quickly as I was wounded.

Speaking to the one called “Simon,“ he said,  “Love your enemies. Pray for those who persecute you.”

Who does this? Who heals the adversary that is about to become your executioner?

In one hand, I hold the nails. With the other, I touch my ear. Whole. Restored. Because He touched me.

Two of my men lift him by hands and feel and lay Him on the beam. Naked. Bloodied. Silent, his eyes meet mine. From deep within the crevice of an eye nearly swollen shut, compassion, love, and forgiveness radiate from him, reaching my soul.

“Malchus!”

I turn my head to hide my tears.

Bending over him, I whisper, “Forgive me. I have no choice.”

I swing the hammer.