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, 30 A.D.
Jesus endures the whipping post.

His body quivered with the shock of each blow. But he was silent. Silent and gasping. “Thirteen.
“Fourteen.”
I moved to one side, trying to get a look at his face. His thorn-crowned brow was pressed to the post.
“Fifteen.
“Sixteen.”
He was mouthing a word with each blow. What was it?
“Seventeen.
“Eighteen.”
It came with a gasp. Barely audible.
“Father.
“Father.”
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.
“Twenty-two.”
They started over at the shoulders.
“Twenty-three.
“Twenty-four.”
Once more the frenzied cheers went up.
“Twenty-five.
“Twenty-six.”
Each man aimed to outdo the other; each blow was more savage than the last.
“Twenty-seven.
“Twenty-eight.”
He did not cry out, unlike many men I have seen. He was silent beneath the cracking whip, uncommonly silent.
“Twenty-nine.
“Thirty.”
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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