Crucify him! Crucify him!
The mob chanted angrily.
I didn’t understand the hatred. Pilate said this man had done no wrong. Why was he being silent?
He was opressed, and he was afflicted, yet he opened not his mouth.
Why did the people want him dead?
He is despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief: and we hid as it were our faces from him; he was despised, and we esteemed him not.
Slowly, he was led away and I found myself curiously following all the way to Calvary. An unrecognised face in the crowd, I caught a glimpse of rusty nails.
Wasn’t this the same man who had healed many?
With his stripes we are healed.
The guards mocked and hit him. I looked away.
But he was wounded for our trangressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him.
My eyes caught some women clad in black in front bewailing loudly. I winced and looked back to the cross.
There, beholding the cross, questions flooded my mind. Why was he still so peaceful up there? All he ever did was love.
A lone tear fell.
Via a time-travelling machine courtesy of my favourite physician, Luke and main man, Isaiah.