The Witness

I nudged my way through the crowd, I heard men and women shout aloud. “Jesus!” I stretched my neck as I stood on my tiptoes. Another shout arose. “Who will you choose? Barabbas, or Jesus, king of the Jews?” Barabbas’s name filled the air, while the badly-beaten Jesus just stood there. The Roman soldiers took Jesus away; the people made their choice, there was nothing left to say. At the site where He was crucified, His followers hung their heads and cried. A long steel nail was placed in the palm of His hand; the soldier drove it in upon command. A tall man blocked my view, as the crowd pushed their way through. The soldiers hoist the large cross, and it fell into a hole in the ground; it created a thump of a sound. Blood from the crown of thorns fell into His eyes, just as He looked up at the sky. He called to God His father, with authority. He looked down at His mother, Mary. “It is finished,” He said. The next minute, He was dead. A travail of cries echoed the air, while the soldiers gambled for His robe without a care. I pushed my way through. A man stepped in front of me and asked, “Are you a Jew?” I pulled away and said, “Please, please, I have to see this man who died on Calvary!” I looked upon Him, so frail and drawn. I whispered, “Is He really gone?” I heard a voice in my mind say to me, “I died for you so that you might be free.”