The Dilemma of A Condemned Man
He Could Have Called Down Angels The weight of the wood bruised His shoulder long before the crowd noticed He had begun to stumble. Blood traced its way down His back like ink running from a cracked scroll. His knees buckled more than once, but no one rushed to lift Him. They only shouted louder, as if the volume of their voices could silence the trembling in His body. Jesus of Nazareth had healed the blind and raised the dead, but in that moment, He looked nothing like a miracle. His face was swollen from the soldiers’ fists. His robe, once a mockery draped in sarcasm, now clung to open wounds. Somewhere in the chaos, Peter hid in the shadows, ashamed. Somewhere else, Mary wept. But Jesus kept walking—dragging, gasping, enduring. He had always known it would come to this. In the quiet hills of Galilee, He had spoken of seeds and sparrows. He had turned water into wine not for spectacle, but to save a wedding from shame. He had touched lepers when no one else would and dined with...
