“NOOOOOOOOOOO!!”

Someone holds me back. Just barely I can feel their fingers digging into my shoulders. “Nooo… No! Yeshua, tell them! Yeshua, please…” My throat is raw from screaming. The sobs shake my body. I cannot breathe for the strength of them. “Yeshua, please…please, just tell them. Why are you doing this? WHY?”

Your body is broken. I can see each of your vertebrae, and there are ribbons of flesh hanging from your back. The guard shoves the crown harder onto your head as you stumble, and you wince. “Let me GO! Yeshua! Yeshua!” You refuse to look at me. Dammit I’m your mother. Look at me, child. “John, let me go!” Yeshua, why are you letting this happen?

You are the King. You are perfect, blameless. There is nothing you’ve done wrong. My baby…Where is YHWH now? Where is YHWH, when His Son is being murdered? I hear an inhuman growling. John and Mary Magdalene stare at me. Salome whispers prayers. Those won’t help him now. He needs his mother! My arms are so sore… “YESHUA!”

The crowd presses close now and someone pulls me back. “Mother, please stop. If they know you’re with Him, they will kill you.”

My hand stings and I take John’s surprise as a chance to run. “No! Let me through!” His hands are tight on my arms, his cheek above the beard already a splotchy red. “You bastard. I’m his eema. I’m not going to abandon him. Let me GO!” Suddenly, I cannot see. Rough wool is smothering me and my nose is full of the smell of sweat and smoke. Time stands still.

“Hush, Mary… There is nothing we can do. If he wants this to happen, who are we to stop it?” I can here Magdalena sobbing behind me. Screams of “Hail Yeshua, King of the Jews!” and “Crucify him!” ring in my ears. I cannot stop the shaking.

Three years. Three years! He taught them, fed them, healed them. The ungrateful bastards. How dare they do this to my son! Don’t they know who he is? Traitors. Only five days past, had they not worshipped him as the Messiah? Now, they lead him to his death. My baby…

John is crying, too. What does he have to cry about? He has known Yeshua for three years. I have known him for thirty-three. I don’t see a Rabbi. I don’t see the Messiah. I see my little boy, scared and alone. He’s all alone, and I can’t go to him.

John is surprised by my strength and then I am running. My skirts are to my waist and my feet are flying. I have to find him. He has to know… I would never leave him. They can kill me for all I care. I have to save my baby. The crowd is thick, full of angry people. What kind of Passover is this? How is this gratitude to YHWH? Fools, all of you are fools! “Yeshua! I’m coming!” Men step back in surprise, faces dark. I don’t pay much attention. Through the sea of legs, I see a bloody knee hit the ground. Oh Yeshua, how many times have I kissed that knee and made everything better. I can barely see through the tears. I wish I could make everything better now.

Finally, I’m through. The sudden emptiness startles me. He’s there, right before me, body crushed under the weight of the crossbeam. “No… Yeshua…baby…” The wood digs into my palms, rougher than any wood Yeshua would have used as a carpenter. It scrapes against my skin as I push, trying to get it off of him. Skin clings to the spurs and Yeshua yelps. “Oh Yeshua!” I freeze. I cannot stand his pain, but I cannot figure out what to do. His spit is dark with blood, his back a mass of raw meat. Everything is exposed, ripped through the robe by the wood.

He refuses to look at me, but one bloodied hand brushes my wrist, leaving two red lines. “Leave it…Eema…” Tears well up but I don’t move. “This…is my…path…” This man, this broken creature, this is my baby. I held him at my breast. I kept him safe. I watched him grow, and he wants me to let him die? “Let me…go…” Before I can answer a boot catches me in the stomach. “Eema!” I allow a small smile and sit up. The Roman centurian spits. Yes, Yeshua. I am your mother, and I will not let you go.

“Get up.” Yeshua tries. I can see it in every muscle, in the sweat on his brow. His entire body shakes with the effort. He even bites his lip, just like he used to. Blood oozes from his lacerations and the beam never moves. “I said get up. If you’re God, why can’t you even do that?” The centurian’s boot pulls back to kick my baby, and I’m in front of him again.

“Eema…” His voice breaks my soul. It cuts me deeper than any piece of leather can.

“He cannot pick it up.” My voice is strong. My body is weak. I feel sick, thinking about what I must do. Yeshua is the Son of God. No Father could let this happen. If I can gain him more time, maybe he will be saved. Either way, I cannot allow him to die like this. “What use is he to Caesar if he cannot make it to Golgotha? What use is he if he doesn’t die for all to see?” I want to vomit, but my baby…


I am in a daze. A man from the crowd carried Yeshua’s beam. Even he, clean from all beatings, was raw when they reached the top. And still, YHWH did nothing. John holds me on the ground, weeping with me. I couldn’t help him. I couldn’t help my baby. His hands, those hands that formed so many beautiful works, that built so many pieces, that I held so many times, are limp, their wrists ripped open. I can still hear his screams. There is nothing left in my stomach, but I still heave at the memory. I can hear each blow as they went through, hear his shrieks as they flip him over the bang the nails flat on the back. I can hear the sound of bones and organs scraping against the grain of the cross, his blood mixed with the blood of criminals. My voice is nearly gone, my screams mere whispers. My baby is dying, and my God did nothing to save him. Nothing. My baby, my little Yeshua…

The soldiers mock him, their voices harsh. I am numb to it now. There is no hope. There is nothing I can do. My baby is hanging from the tree, humiliated and naked for the entire world to see. There is nothing I can do. This isn’t how it was supposed to end. This wasn’t what I wanted…

I cannot touch his face, but the guards allow us to come closer. There is no way I could get him down, even with Magdalena and John’s help. Salome is a silent shadow behind us, her body wracked with her grief. This is the end. Gently, I kiss his toes, his shins, his knees. The song barely makes its way out of me, wobbling and weak. “My soul glorifies…the Lord…and my sprit…rejoices in God my Savior.” My voice cracks and I lick bitter tears and blood from my lips. My baby’s breath rattles in his lungs, thundering in the silence around me. There is nothing I can do. The sobs come harder. “For…he has been…mindful…of the…humble state of…his…servant… Oh Yeshua…” I cannot breathe from crying. John lays a hand on my shoulder and I shake him off. “Yeshua, why? You are my son! Why can I not save you?!”

His chest rattles again, but there is no following hiss. “Dear woman, here…is your son.” The words leave me empty, but full. Then this really is the end. He intends to die here. Still, I hear it in his words. My Yeshua will always be my little boy. My baby takes another shuddering breath, those beautiful brown eyes fluttering to stay open. It’s the first time he’s looked at me since I was kicked. He looks away, to John. “Behold your mother.” Gently, I step back. There is nothing more I can do.

We watch from a few yards away as the life leaves my baby’s body. Even the sky refuses to look at him, a darkness like night sweeping over us. The people scream around me. I cannot take my eyes off him. Even in the sudden darkness, I can still make out his shuddering form. Gradually, the soldiers bring torches. I wish they hadn't. The light casts horrible shadows across his body, the hollows of his cheeks and the gasping of his lungs so much more obvious now.

He was so beautiful, so perfect, that first day. Today, he is even more beautiful. This is my son. For all you fools out there, this is my baby. He is dying because of you! He will die in this place of criminals, surrounded by hate, for you. My baby, my Yeshua... I cannot watch, but I cannot look away. This is the thanks the Messiah gets for what he has done. World, I hope you mourne your part in his murder when you realize who it is you have killed. This is your fault, all of you… Oh, Yeshua… If only this wasn’t the only way.

Golgotha is silent now. Only the moans of the accused fill the air. John pulls me closer, trying to shelter me from the pain, but nothing can save me now. I can feel my very soul melting away with each painful breath. His eyes flutter now. His arms shake with the effort to continue living. Each breath, each pressing on the step, is shallower than the last. He has nothing left in him. His face is black with pain. All I can remember is that first day. That first cry. My child...

“It is finished.”

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 03.04.2011

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