by Fred Meyer
Admitting he was the king of the Jews, he knowingly signed his own death certificate with his own blood. With hard blow after hard blow, the flagellum’s balls of lead sliced through his flesh, skin hanging off by a thread, muscles destroyed, blood splattering and gushing, pain that few have felt. A scarlet robe draped on him in false worship of the rejected king; a crown of thorns slammed onto his head, piercing through flesh; slapped, punched, hit, and spit upon, each act of violence a message of hate; his identity and mission mocked with each word and each deed; saturated in blood, covered in welts and bruises, but more torture was to come.
Spikes driven through the tenderest of spots to secure him to the cross, each blow of the hammer sent searing pain through his limbs; raised and hung to suffocate, dehydrate, bleed out, and die; darkness descended on the land and its inhabitants, death seconds away, and then he cried out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Murdered in cold blood for his audacious claims.
He didn’t have all that good of a Friday, did he?
Read the account for yourself
Check out my other Sixes: