The heavy piece of wood is tied to his back. A grim, staring portent of the horror to come, I can hardly bear to look at it. He is grimy, and bloody, and looks on the verge of death already.
How did it come to this? My mind races through the happenings of the last few days. Only yesterday I was sure that he was the great Rabbi, the great Messiah, just waiting for his time, waiting for the time when he would show himself to the world and make our people great again-make us free, and rid of our mighty and cruel overlords.
Oh but look! He stumbles. I try to rush forward and let my feeble strength give him what little solace it can, but there are arms pushing me back. Strong hairy arms. My face dashes against the soldier's breastplate as I begin to wail. The sobs engulf me, shaking my body. I am conscious only of a desperate pity and a sense of despair for me and my companions as well as we follow the soldiers escorting him onward.
I long to be a man: to have armour and a long sharp sword, which could slash the evil soldiers to pieces. I want to save our good Rabbi, the way he saved me from my meaningless existence. But why should I have to? Why does he not do something? Why can't he miraculously escape? Isn't he the Son of God? Is he?
No answers come to mind.
But look again! The press of the crowd has somehow brought him closer to us. He turns and looks at us wailing and I look deep into his eyes. Instead of misery, I can see concern. 'Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for me; weep for yourselves and for your children' he says.
The flood of my tears increases, instead, so that I hardly hear the rest of what he is saying. Still, somehow, it is those words that are repeated over and over inside my head, both now and during the awfulness of the next few hours.
How did it come to this? My mind races through the happenings of the last few days. Only yesterday I was sure that he was the great Rabbi, the great Messiah, just waiting for his time, waiting for the time when he would show himself to the world and make our people great again-make us free, and rid of our mighty and cruel overlords.
Oh but look! He stumbles. I try to rush forward and let my feeble strength give him what little solace it can, but there are arms pushing me back. Strong hairy arms. My face dashes against the soldier's breastplate as I begin to wail. The sobs engulf me, shaking my body. I am conscious only of a desperate pity and a sense of despair for me and my companions as well as we follow the soldiers escorting him onward.
I long to be a man: to have armour and a long sharp sword, which could slash the evil soldiers to pieces. I want to save our good Rabbi, the way he saved me from my meaningless existence. But why should I have to? Why does he not do something? Why can't he miraculously escape? Isn't he the Son of God? Is he?
No answers come to mind.
But look again! The press of the crowd has somehow brought him closer to us. He turns and looks at us wailing and I look deep into his eyes. Instead of misery, I can see concern. 'Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for me; weep for yourselves and for your children' he says.
The flood of my tears increases, instead, so that I hardly hear the rest of what he is saying. Still, somehow, it is those words that are repeated over and over inside my head, both now and during the awfulness of the next few hours.
