The big cross, carried by insolent youths, swung to and fro above the
heads of the people. Every one tried to get out of the way of the
sinister thing; if a man, joking, thrust his neighbour towards it, he
pushed quickly back into the crowd with a shriek. And the unceasing
cry went on: "Hail to Pontius Pilate! To the cross with the Nazarene!"
Jesus was led from the hall into the courtyard, where His guards had to
protect Him from the fury of the mob. They led Him up to the cross.
A sentry appeared, and, violently swinging his arm, shouted; "No
execution can take place here! Away with Him! No execution can be
permitted here!"
"To Golgotha!"
When the youths found that they would have to take the cross back to
where they had fetched it, they let it fall to the ground, so that the
wood made a groaning noise, and then ran off.
"Let Him carry His own cross!" shouted several voices. The plan
commended itself to the guards; they unbound His hands, and placed the
cross on His shoulder. He staggered under the load. They beat Him
with cords like a beast of burden; He tottered along with trembling
steps, carrying the stake on His right shoulder, so that one arm of the
cross fell against His breast, held fast there by His hands. The long
stake was dragged along the ground. They had tied a cord round His
waist by which they led Him. They pulled Him along so violently that
He stumbled, and often fell. The crowd which followed tried to do
everything they could to hurt Him. So Jesus tottered along, bowed
under the heavy weight of the wood. His gown covered with street mud,
His head pierced by the thorns so that drops of blood trickled down His
unkempt hair and over His agonised face. Never before was so wretched
a figure dragged to the place of execution, never before was a poor
malefactor so terribly ill-treated on his way to death. And never
before had such dignity and gentleness been seen in the countenance of
a condemned man as in that of this man. Some women who had got up
early out of curiosity to see the procession stood crowded together at
the street corner. But when they saw it their mood changed, and they
broke out into loud lamentation, over the unheard-of horror. Jesus
raised His trembling hand towards them, as if He wished to warn them:
"While your husbands murder Me, you are melted to tears. Do not lament
for Me, lament for yourselves and for your children, who will have to
suffer for the sins of their fathers!" One of the women, heedless of
the raging mob, tore the white kerchief from her head, and bent down to
Him who was carrying the cross in order to wipe the blood and
perspiration from His face. When she got back to her house and was
about to wash the cloth, she saw on it--the face of the Prophet. And
it seemed as if kindness and gratitude for her service of love looked
out from its features at her. The women all came running up to see the
miracle, and to haggle to get the cloth that bore such a picture for
themselves. But its possessor locked it up in her room.
When Jesus fell beneath the cross for the third time, He was unable to
get up again. The guards tugged and pulled Him; the Roman soldiers who
accompanied them were too proud to carry the cross for this wretched
Jew. So the crowd was invited to chose someone to lift up Jesus and
drag the cross along. The only answer was scornful laughter. A
hard-featured cobbler rushed out of a neighbouring house, and, almost
foaming at the mouth with rage, demanded that the creature should be
removed from before his door. "Customers will be frightened away," he
cried.
"Let Him rest here for a moment," said one of the soldiers, pointing to
the fallen man, whose breast heaved in short, violent spasms.
Then the cobbler swung a leathern strap and struck the exhausted man.
He pulled Himself together in order to totter a few steps farther. An
old man, full of years and very lonely, stood by. He had come from the
desert where great thoughts dwell. He had come to see if Jerusalem was
ascending upwards or sinking downwards. He desired its descent, for he
longed for rest. The old man stood in front of the cobbler and said to
him softly: "Grandson of Uriah! You refuse a brief rest to this
poorest of poor creatures? You yourself will be everlastingly
restless. You will experience human misery to the uttermost and never
be able to rest. The curse of your people will be fulfilled in
you--you heartless Jew!"
At that selfsame hour Simeon, the citizen, was sitting alone in his
house thinking over his fate, and he was sad. Since the ride into the
wilderness, from which he had returned beaten and robbed, he had,
following the word of the Prophet from whom he had sought happiness,
made many changes in his way of life. Impossible as it had then
seemed, much had become possible. He had emancipated his slaves,
broken up his harem, given the overflow of his possessions to the
needy, and dispensed with all show. And yet he was not happy--his
heart was bare and empty. He was pondering the matter when the
shouting of the crowd reached him from the street. What was happening
so early? He looked down, saw the spears of the soldiers glitter above
the people's heads, and noted how one of the malefactors who was to be
executed that day was being led out. Simeon was turning away from the
disagreeable sight when he saw that the man was carrying the cross
Himself, and how, ill-treated by the guards, He became weaker every
moment, so that the cross struck noisily against the stones. In a
flash he understood. Without stopping to think, he hurried into the
street, and pushed his way to the tortured creature in order to help
Him. And when he looked into the poor man's worn face, down which a
tear ran, he was so overcome with pity that he placed himself under the
cross, took it on his shoulder, and carried it along. The crowd
howled; insults and mud were thrown at Simeon. He paid no heed, he
scarcely observed it. He was absorbed in what he was doing; he only
thought of his desire to help the unhappy creature who staggered along
beside him to bear His load. A wondrous feeling stirred in him, an
eager gladness that he had never known before. All the joy of his life
was not to be compared with this bliss; he would have liked to go on
for ever and ever by the side of this Man, helping Him to bear His load
and loving Him.
Is that it? Is that what men call life? To be where Love is and to do
what Love enjoins?