The purple hue of the long, majestic robe shone in the day’s
glowing light. The fabric was of the highest quality, made of
purple dye which was rare. It was placed on the shoulders of the
man to belie the salient truth of his royal position. The hem of the
robe grazed the ground as it slipped from the sagging shoulders of
its bearer. He’d stood still when the roman soldiers had placed it
on him and then jeered in mock approval. Their cawing bounced
off the walls of the hall or Praetorium, and resembled squawks of
vultures, “Hail, king of the Jews.” He answered nothing and stood
as still as a rock, withstanding their ridicules as much as he’d
endured their brutal treatments which had marred his skin, along
with their dribbles of saliva which dripped off of His body.
The purplish robe turned crimson as they placed a crown on His
head to match the royal attire. It was fashioned with prickly thorns
and as each pointy stem skewered the sides of His scalp, the gush
of blood trickled down His face, its metallic odor suffocating. He
remained unmoved as they hauled Him away to stand before an
audience who sniffed for death like a dog sniffed meat. Though He
could’ve snuffed the lot of them His only intent was to follow the
script that His Father had written for Him, and He knew His role
perfectly. Once His part was completed He’d be where He
belonged sitting at the right hand of His Father adorned with a
splendid robe that was fit only for the King of Kings and Lord of
As He stood before the crowd to be chosen in the place of the
true criminal deserving death due each sinner, He waited for His
time to come, which was near and inevitable. The searing heat that
radiated from the sun matched the hot breaths of the crowd, which
bellowed, “Crucify Him,” repeatedly.
He was stripped of His robe and was led away to be beaten and
then bore the cross that would be used to crucify Him. It was His
new robe, a lofty, planked wood He had to carry atop His bruised
back and forge a path toward Golgotha, a small hill located on the
outskirts of the city of Jerusalem. As He meandered toward His
death propelled by love Jesus consecrated the ground with His
blood and tears while agony accompanied Him as much as did a
man named Simon of Cyrene. People gathered to watch. Those
who loved Him were easy to spot since pain contorted their
countenances; His mother, Mary, Mary Magdalene, and His
Disciples were among them.
He cried out with every pound of nail that punctured the meat
of His hands and feet. Then He looked upward toward the sky with
anguish, suddenly feeling utterly alone. “Father, why have You
forsaken Me?” Such was the dejectedness of a Derelict. When He
drew His final breath, the sky displayed a purple haze as the battle
over sin had been won.
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