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: Three o’clock in the afternoon, Friday, April 7, 30A.D.
Jesus’ final moments on the cross.

Here is the obscenity of crucifixion. Naked men are unwillingly mated to two wooden beams. They must thrust the whole of their bodies upward in excruciating pain, ever-increasing pain to catch their next breath—until all strength is drained away. Then death steals in.
This is the shame of the cross. Here is the depravity—a profane sacrilege inflicted upon the human body.
The ghastly rhythm of it was driving me mad.
Then in soul- wrenching anguish, his voice erupted. “Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?”
“What does that mean?” I cried out into the darkness.
From beyond the military cordon came the answer. “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
He had broken. The Christ hung broken. The cross had broken him. He too was human. We were all together now, a great crowd caught up in this drama. There was no us and them. We were together. We were caught between heaven and hell in this dark, surreal atmosphere.
It was dreadful.
Someone frantically yelled, “It’s Elijah! He’s calling Elijah.”
Exhaling.
Mounting up.
Ever-heightening pain.
Catching a breath.
Retreating.
From on the Mother’s Hill, a wail went up. It was steady, constant, a wave of woe flowing over the dark scene.
Exhaling.
Mounting up.
Ever-heightening pain.
Catching a breath.
Retreating.
“Will Elijah come?” someone asked. “Will he come?” Many of the hostile were even now on bended knees. The cavalrymen dismounted.
Exhaling.
Mounting up.
Ever-heightening pain.
Catching a breath.
Retreating.
“I thirst!” the king called out.
Claudius leaped to his feet. There was a jar of wine off to one side. The soldiers had been drinking freely from this. He ran over to it and got a sponge. He dropped the sponge into the jar of wine and then skewered it with a long reed. This he held up to dampen the lips of the donkey king.
But some yelled out, “Wait! Let’s see if Elijah will come and save him.”
Exhale.
Mounting up.
Ever-heightening pain.
Catch a breath.
Retreat.
The rarified air crackled with anticipation.
Exhaling.
Mounting up.
Ever-heightening pain.
Catching a breath.
Retreating.
Can the Creator—the God of heaven and earth—save him now?
Exhaling.
Mounting up.
Ever-heightening pain.
Catching a breath.
Retreating.
“It is finished!” he cried.
But there was no anguish in his voice. There was the ring of victory to it, as if he had caught with that last breath a glimpse—a glimpse of his kingdom. A glorious kingdom! He had gained the summit. Now with vigor renewed, he pushed up and forward one last time.
Exhaling.
Mounting up.
Ever-heightening pain.
Catching a breath.
Retreating.
“Father . . .
“Into your hands . . .
“I commit . . .
“My Spirit.”
His head dropped. It was over.
As his chin hit his chest, the earth began to rumble. Low thrumming. Building . . . building . . .
The rock Skull began to move beneath my feet. And with it, my soul.
I fell to the ground.
The crosses began to vibrate and rock with the power of the quake. His head bobbed from side to side.
But he was dead.
He was dead!
Everyone was with me on bended knees.
Heaven had rendered its dark judgment. The sun had hidden its face. The very earth had answered back. The verdict was in.
I caught two huge breaths of air, and then for the whole world to hear, I cried out, “He really was the Son of God.”
He was the Son of God.
The sun broke through.
A rooster crowed.

American readers click this link to purchase The Soldier Who Killed a King.

Canadian readers click this link to purchase The Soldier Who Killed a King directly from the author.