It was me.
I did it.
It’s my fault.
His face is there once again in my dreams – pain, such horrible pain, sketched across it.
It was me.
It was me who betrayed him; me who told the Priests where he was; me who led them to the Garden of Gethsamene. Oh, that horrible, horrible night, in that horrible garden; that horrible kiss I gave my master on the night I betrayed him.
It was me. I betrayed my Lord.
I did it.
I was the one in the crowd who yelled at the top of my lungs. That wicked, wicked crowd in that wicked place of judgment. And the wicked word - “Crucify!” The place throbbed with the beat of my heart. “Crucify!” It rang with the words that I screamed. “Crucify!” The Creator rejected by his own creation. “Crucify him!”
I did it. I rejected my Creator.
It’s my fault.
It’s my fault that he died. He died! He died because of me, who made his crown of thorns. I was the one who mocked him. It was me who flogged him. Me who laughed when he fell on his face, on that dreadful road up to Mount Golgotha.
I was the one who held the hammer, that huge, deadly hammer. I was the one who put the nail into place. It was my arm that swung back – and fell with a thud. Thud, thud, thud, to match the beat of my heart.
“The King of the Jews” was in my own handwriting. And those hands that tugged, tugged, tugged on the rope that lifted a cross into place – those were mine. I rolled the dice – gambling over his clothes even while he still lived. I was the one who cried, “Come down, if you really are God!” but also the one who looked away, scared to meet his searching eyes. I was there when he cried out for water, and I lifted the sponge soaked in vinegar instead. I watched as the skies darkened, as the wind began to howl, and the Earth began to tremble. I heard him, overcoming pain, overcoming anger, overcoming the horrible weight of sin – forgive me.
I was the one who looked up – and saw the blood crawling down his face, saw the pain in his eyes, saw the love in his smile. Yes, love for me. Me, me, me! Me, who stood there helpless as his head hung low, who saw the final breath escape the weary lungs. Me, who saw him die. Who killed him. Me, who pierced his side. Me, who looked down at the spear in my hand, the blood-stained spear, and cried. Yes, I cried. Cried, and cried, and cried. Fell down on my knees and sobbed, my body throbbing with the pain of guilt. I had killed my God! I had killed my Lord! I had murdered my Savior! I rocked back and forth, holding the spear that was covered in his blood. And I sobbed. I sobbed because I knew that He was the one. He was the Messiah, and I had killed him. I stood up and screamed my rage and grief to the world. And then I took that wretched spear, and broke it over my knee. I threw it, wanting to be rid of it forever – for it to be as far away as possible. But it landed at the foot of the cross. The cross. His cross. I crawled slowly toward it, and hugged the rough wood to my tear-stained face. And slowly my hand slid up, up, up; and touched the cold, limp feet of my Lord. I ran my hand over those feet, and then I felt the nail, hard, cold and cruel, that still held those lifeless feet still. Suddenly I tore away from Him – and stopped a few feet away, the tears welling up all over again. I looked for something to give me comfort. But all I saw were things that had brought death – the hammer, pieces of wood, the dice that the gamblers had left behind. But everywhere, everywhere, blood. His blood. The same blood that stained my clothes, that had rubbed off on my face, that covered my hands. I tried to rub it off, but the more I rubbed, the redder it became. I was horrified. My hands were stained with his blood, and guilt once more overwhelmed me. Suddenly all I wanted was to be away, away from this dreadful place, away from the hammer, from the blood, from this hill. But most of all, away from that dead figure on the cross. The One that I had murdered. Away, away, away! I started to run; faster, faster; stumbling over rocks, but always on, and on, away! I didn’t care where I was going…I only cared about what I was running away from. But my heart still hurt, and it tugged at me, urging me to stop, to turn, to look back. No! I screamed. No! I must get away! Away, away! Look back, a little voice in my mind said. Look back….and so I did. I stopped, and, slowly, I turned, and did look back; back to the one I was running away from. The darkness had finally lifted, though I had been too lost in grief to care. And there, behind the cross, the sun set in fiery colors of red and orange; the cross looked black and menacing against it. And there, standing in front of the cross, was the shape of a little boy. A very little boy. Standing there alone, alone, alone…I took a step towards him, and then scolded myself. If only I hadn’t looked back! But against my will, I took another step, and stopped still, as the child turned around. Against the last rays of the fading day, I saw a pitiful face streaked with pain and tears. I took another step, and then another and another, my eyes always on the child. And then I was running again, though I don’t know how my tired body found the energy. The child began to shake, it’s body racking with sobs as it’s hands flew up in a feeble attempt to stop the flowing tears. I’m coming! my heart screamed. I’m coming…The little boy fell down on his knees, and more and more sobs came. I’m coming, coming, coming! And then, I was there, and the little head collapsed on my shoulder; the thin arms wrapped around my neck, and a small, sweet little voice by my ear sobbed,
“He’s gone! He’s gone! He’s dead, dead, dead!”
“Shh, shh….” I soothed as my tears mixed with his. “Shh…”
My mind still throbbed with the memory of what I had done, and I didn’t know what to say to comfort when I myself needed comforting. All I could do was hold the little one tight and cry with him. I don’t know how long I held him like that, but just the feel of a warm body against mine was the greatest comfort I could have had in that unhappy hour. The child’s sobs turned into sniffles, and then into deep, shaky breaths. A little hand pushed against my shoulder and he squirmed out of my arms, and ran to the foot of the cross, his head leaned back and deep brown eyes filled with the question “why?” as he stared up. It tore my heart to see it. I walked to his side, and gently took his hand, and we stood that way, reflecting. Reflecting on the wondrous deeds, the miracles and signs - the teachings and parables, the rumors that spread like fire through the town. And then his Death. He never spoke a word in His defence - never cried aloud when the nails were driven in - never yelled or screamed at the ones who defied him. He just looked at them with those loving, pain-filled eyes, and forgave them. I thought of my grief and misery, of my screams of rage and sobs of hopelessness. And I knelt down on my knees - and prayed.

"Lord...." Tears. "Jesus, if anyone ever did you wrong, it was me. I..."
More tears. It took a while for me to begin again. "It was my hands that nailed you, raised your cross, and pierced your side. And some of those sins that weighed you down - those were mine. I'm sorry. So sorry...." Sobs again, and my face fell to the dust before his feet. "Would you...." a shaky breath. "Please, Jesus, forgive me. Take my guilt, my awful guilt away!"
And then I remembered his beautiful eyes, though already they were fading from life; and I saw again the love in them. Yes, he forgave me. I remembered his crooked, pain filled smile; yes, smile! A smile in the midst of tears. Yes, he forgave me. I remembered how his face had softened as it turned to me. Yes, he forgave me. I remembered those words he uttered even as he clung with a last effort to Life. "Father, forgive them...." He forgave me. Even me, his murderer.
A little hand touched my shoulder. "Don't worry. He loves you. He will always love you."
I looked up at a boy not more than 6 years old.
"He loves you." I lifted my head to look at Jesus' body, and then turned back to the boy. But he was gone. The little boy that had helped bring me back to the foot of the cross, that had helped me to overcome my guilt and shame.
Was he an Angel?
I laughed. I felt so light, so free; so happy. Forgiven.
"Thanks." I whispered, and walked again down the path towards Jerusalem.