The Crown Weaver
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put a scarlet robe
plaiting a crown of
they put it
Time: Approximately 33 A.D.
Place: Behind a rock, near Pilate's praetorium,
a Roman soldier,
and Satan, disguised
as a house servant.
"Will THESE do.....
my good SIR?"
(The servant, a small and wiry fellow, dressed in the typical colorless garb of the Roman lower class, and with a slight bow, graciously held out, in both hands, the broken-off branches of thorn brambles.)
(Lothus looked down at the much smaller, older man, and nodded; he was in a rush to get back to his comrades, who were busy making fun of one of their prisoners, who had just been
scourged and was about to be put to death. Lothus, with one big leathery hand, grabbed at the bundle of branches.)
my good SIR!"
(The small, wiry man bowed again, even lower, and with a pleading voice, full of servitude, spoke once more.)
Let me....HELP you,
(Lothus didn't say a word; he merely took
his enclosed fist off the thorny twigs, and nodded.)
(The servant bowed again, and gave a
slight smile: closing his eyes with
"I would not want
you to HURT...
(The servant, bowing once more, backed
away on his bare feet and sat down on a crevice of rock
near the soldiers' entrance gate.)
QUICK with it!
We are in a HURRY!"
(Lothus, with both fists on his girdled
waist, stood by imperiously, and frowned with impatience.)
It is my PLEASURE....
to SERVE you!"
(The little man sat obediently on the moss-covered rock, and
began to weave together the thorny branches into a makeshift crown, with precisely dexterious movements; he gave great attention to his work as if it were a beautiful sculpture of great value; in spite of the thick heavy thorns, the servant's fingers seemed to not even get a scrape, or cut. After a few moments, the drab-faced, little man looked up: holding out both wiry hands: the venomous-looking wreath lying on his small open palms like a lovely, precious gift.)
"Will THIS do.....
(Lothus just frowned, with more impatience.
He grabbed at the thorny wreath with one huge fist.)
"GIVE THAT thing.... to ME!"
(Lothus shook his helmet'd head: looking down, and pulling the last bramble of thorns into place.)
(Lothus didn't notice the beaming, toothy smile of the little fellow who had stood up from his perch on the rock,
and was now bowing humbly again, and staring intensely at him with eyes that were like holes: long cavernous wells empty of water. A dank smell of mold and wet worms came from his breath, like frosty air on a cold, crisp morning. )
ELSE...that I may
DO for you,
my good SIR?"
(Lothus merely grunted, in reply; his nostrils flared from
the little man's stench of breath, but he paid no mind;
as a Roman soldier, he was accustomed to horrific
sights and smells. Lothus turned to go back to his busy comrades, when suddenly a bright shaft of sunlight pierced through the overshadowing dark clouds of the day, and touched Lothus' eyelids beneath his thick craggy brows.
(For a moment,
Lothus grimaced: putting one hand up
to shield his eyes. It was just a moment of discomfort, and then it was gone. Lothus, still holding on to the thorny wreath, muttered to himself and tramped away: his
sandaled feet making great hurrying strides back to his comrades-at-play. He had already forgotten the little, older man; servants were like beasts-of-burden, and were to be taken no notice.)
(Satan smiled broadly, and nodded:
watching the big brute run back toward his buddies: grasping the odd-looking crown as if it were a brand-new toy.)
Then, almost instantly, Satan
moved his eyes upward toward the dark, cloudy sky. He cursed: gritting his teeth like sharp, uneven fangs. The bright shaft of light had pierced through the heavy clouds, once more.
Only, it was not sunlight at all: only a glint of the golden Crown that lay upon the empty Throne in Heaven. Angels, upon angels, upon angels, were were kneeling in front of the empty Throne.......
crown of thorns,
the put it
on His head,
and put a reed
in His right hand,
of the Jews!"
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