Another paper I had to write. This was written in Simon (from Cyrene)'s POV. He was the man that had carried the cross for Jesus. Review?
Simon from Cyrene
When I had woken up this morning, I had thought I'd have a normal day. I thought I would work, eat, and spend time with my family, like I always did on every day of the week. But now, I'm carrying a heavy wooden cross through these dirty, crowded streets. Ahead of me was the man that was to be put on the cross. I couldn't see His face, but He was beaten and torn, bloody and battered, and my heart clenched for Him. I didn't know who He was, or what He did, but I couldn't help but feel pity for Him.
Women were sobbing and calling out to Him, and I wondered why He was so important to all of them. I paused for a second and shifted the cross a bit so it wouldn't slip off my shoulder.
The man turned to the women and children and I squinted, the sun burning my eyes. The profile of His bruised face came into view and my eyes widened. I almost stopped, but I quickly pushed myself forward before the guards around me could do anything to me.
The man ahead of me was no ordinary man. It was Him. It was the Messiah. That was Jesus Christ. I was carrying Jesus' cross. This cross was meant for Him. What had He done to be crucified?
"Daughters of Jerusalem," He said. "Do not weep for me; weep for yourselves and for your children. For the time will come when you will say, 'Blessed are the childless women, the wombs that never bore and the breasts that never nursed!' Then they will say to the mountains, 'Fall on us!' and the hills, 'Cover us!' For if people do these things when the tree is green, what will happen when it is dry?"
As I trudged on behind Him, I watched Him, waiting for a sign of self-pity or pain for Himself, but He didn't seem to be thinking about that. He went on, though the scorching sun and the sand must burn his wounds, He didn't try to resist or plead for mercy.
When we finally had come to Skull, the place he was to be crucified, they took the cross and shoved me aside. I backed away as they hammered three large nails into His wrists and feet. I winced each time the hammer hit the head of the nail, and He cried out, the metal digging into His flesh even further.
On either side of Him, two criminals, I recognized, were hung on crosses as well. But I didn't pay any attention to them; my gaze was fixed on Jesus.
The crown of thorns pierced His head, blood trailing down His face, matting His hair. He took a breath, "Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing."
I swallowed, watching the Roman soldiers dividing up His clothes by casting lots. And the people around me stood staring up at Him, and the rulers sneered at Him.
They called at Him, "He saved others; let Him save Himself if He is God's Messiah, the Chosen One."
The soldiers mocked Him; they offered Him wine vinegar and said to Him, "If you are the king of the Jews, save yourself."
There was a notice written above Him, which read: This is the King of the Jews.
My chest tightened and my throat contracted as tears sprung into my burning eyes.
One of the criminals, the one that hung on His left side, frowned and looked up at Him with hatred in his red eyes. "Aren't you the Messiah?" he spat. "Save yourself and us!"
But the criminal on Jesus' right spoke up, "Don't you fear God, since you are under the same sentence? We are punished justly, for we are getting what our deeds deserve. But this man has done nothing wrong."
He looked to the man he had defended, "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom."
Jesus answered him immediately, "Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise."
And now, it was about noon, darkness covered the land, and it remained this way until three in the afternoon. It was cold, and it hurt to watch Him slowly dying, but no one seemed to be able to look away.
There was a great sound that tore through the air from down the mountain, but I paid it no heed as Jesus called out in a loud voice with His final breath, "Father, into your hands I commit My spirit."
And His body finally fell limp, the nails holding him against the wooden cross.
The witnesses of the event soon left, but those who knew Jesus stood at a distance, tear filled eyes watching Him for a hope that He'd save Himself.
Tears poured from my eyes as I stared up at Him. He had died on the cross that I had carried for Him. I had helped this horrible death. But I couldn't have stopped it from happening. The soldiers would have beaten, or killed me, and then forced someone else to carry it. It couldn't have been prevented; this was meant to happen.
But my stomach churned, my heart hurt, and my fists clenched as I held them to my wet eyes. And I fell to my knees in sorrow.