A journey to the cross is a journey to repentance. It’s a journey to deep personal change. Will you take this journey with me?
Date: Eight fifteen in the morning, Friday, April 7 30A.D.
Jesus endures the whipping post.
His body quivered with the shock of each blow. But he was silent. Silent and gasping. “Thirteen.
I moved to one side, trying to get a look at his face. His thorn-crowned brow was pressed to the post.
He was mouthing a word with each blow. What was it?
It came with a gasp. Barely audible.
At twenty I called a halt. They had traversed the whole of his body, from shoulders to feet. It was a bloody path. I examined the wounds—more damage than I expected.
His breath came in huge gulps. His eyelids flickered. He remained conscious. At least he remained conscious.
I stepped over to Gaius. I cut another three studs from his whip. Then I did the same for Lucius.
“Harder! Harder!” came a shout from above and behind me. It was Cestas—Cestas going wild on the balcony of the guest chamber. He couldn’t wait for the lashing to resume. Like a giddy child, he bounced up and down and hollered for more.
I gave an upward nod to Lucius and then began calling out the stroke count again. “Twenty-one.
They started over at the shoulders.
Once more the frenzied cheers went up.
Each man aimed to outdo the other; each blow was more savage than the last.
He did not cry out, unlike many men I have seen. He was silent beneath the cracking whip, uncommonly silent.
Stroke by flailing stroke they moved once more across his bloodied frame. A quivering, rutted mess. That’s what was left by the time we reached forty. I stood near him—watched his breathing. It was fast but shallow, very shallow by the time we finished.
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