Simon of Cyrene: The Cross-Bearer’s Legacy

As we come along a road that is crowded with other pilgrims, we notice a centurion on horseback approaching us. Because of the many people on the road, we do not immediately see who is following him or what they are doing. As the people in front of us step to the side of the road, a group of Roman soldiers behind the centurion comes into view. Of course, Lucius and I step off the road also to let the soldiers pass.
Then we notice for the first time that the soldiers are forcing three men with roughhewn crossbars on their shoulders to walk along behind the centurion’s horse. Every time their prisoners slow a bit, the soldiers lash them with whips. One of the prisoners obviously has been scourged; the back of his cloak is covered with blood. Drops of blood trickle down his brow from the puncture wounds caused by a ring of thorns cruelly pressed down on his head. As I take in the horror of this scene, I am filled with pity for the one who has been beaten so severely.
I cannot take my eyes off this man as he approaches. He does not have the appearance of a criminal deserving such harsh punishment. Even though the pain he is experiencing must be excruciating, his eyes have a kind expression. As he comes toward Lucius and me, he stumbles and goes down on one knee. A soldier lashes him and forces him to his feet. I flinch, bite my lip, and turn my head away as the whip comes down on the raw wounds on his back. How brutal is that soldier!
The prisoner rises under the cruel weight of the crossbar, takes a few more steps, and then stumbles and falls again, this time on both hands and knees. The heavy crossbar falls from his shoulder, and with a thud, it hits the ground. After a few more blows with his whip, the soldier finally realizes his prisoner can no longer carry his burden.
The soldier scans the crowd. He fixes his gaze on me. “You there, carry this man’s cross up the road to the place where we will crucify these criminals.”
I look around, hoping the soldier is pointing to a person beside or behind me. “No, you,” he commands. “You look like you’re strong enough.”
“Who? Who me?” I stammer, hoping I can escape this onerous task.
“Yes, you,” orders the soldier, “get out here and pick up that cross.”
I step out and shoulder the man’s burden. Despite his weakness and his pain, he looks at me with an expression of sincere kindness and gratitude. That kind gaze strikes deep in my heart. I cannot believe that any man suffering such intense pain could look at another with such love and gratitude. I fall in step with the soldiers as we walk to the place of crucifixion. Lucius follows us. When we come to the place where these three are to be crucified, I am relieved of my burden. The crosses are by the side of the road in full view of everyone so all who pass may be reminded of what will happen to one who causes trouble.
The soldiers hammer six-inch-long iron nails into the condemned men’s wrists, pinning them to the crossbar. Then they lift the crossbars onto the vertical beam already in place. The remaining nails they drive through the prisoners’ feet into the vertical pole on which the crossbars are attached. Blood begins to ooze from their wounds as they hang there to die. I cannot take my eyes off the man whose cross I carried. He obviously is suffering great pain, but there is something compelling about him that grips my attention. His eyes, his face, his whole bearing belie the suffering he obviously is experiencing. He seems resigned to his fate but still appears to be confident, trusting in God.
I join Lucius on the other side of the road. He is standing with some people who followed this gruesome procession. Most of them are women who are weeping and lamenting the terrible fate of their friend. The women stand by the side of the road, crying and hugging to console one another.
I have never seen anyone being crucified before. It is a terrible sight.
Lucius whispers to me, “They say his name is Jesus. The Sanhedrin convicted him of blasphemy early this morning.”
I remember what Levi had said about this Jesus of Nazareth. Indeed he is a marked man, another would-be Messiah yearning to set our people free.
We stay there for a while; I’m not sure how long. But after some time has passed, Jesus’ head bows, with his chin resting on his chest. His eyes close, and his lips move. He seems to be speaking, but I cannot make out the words. His suffering obviously is intense as he gasps for breath and his life slowly and painfully ebbs away. I can no longer bear the sight of his dying. May God be merciful to him!