I.N.R.I.: A prisoner's Story of the Cross

by Peter Rosegger

A sentry appeared, and, violently swinging his arm, shouted; "No execution can take place here! Away with Him! No execution can be permitted here!"

"To Golgotha!"

When the youths found that they would have to take the cross back to where they had fetched it, they let it fall to the ground, so that the wood made a groaning noise, and then ran off.

"Let Him carry His own cross!" shouted several voices. The plan commended itself to the guards; they unbound His hands, and placed the cross on His shoulder. He staggered under the load. They beat Him with cords like a beast of burden; He tottered along with trembling steps, carrying the stake on His right shoulder, so that one arm of the cross fell against His breast, held fast there by His hands. The long stake was dragged along the ground. They had tied a cord round His waist by which they led Him. They pulled Him along so violently that He stumbled, and often fell. The crowd which followed tried to do everything they could to hurt Him. So Jesus tottered along, bowed under the heavy weight of the wood. His gown covered with street mud, His head pierced by the thorns so that drops of blood trickled down His unkempt hair and over His agonised face. Never before was so wretched a figure dragged to the place of execution, never before was a poor malefactor so terribly ill-treated on his way to death. And never before had such dignity and gentleness been seen in the countenance of a condemned man as in that of this man. Some women who had got up early out of curiosity to see the procession stood crowded together at the street corner. But when they saw it their mood changed, and they broke out into loud lamentation, over the unheard-of horror. Jesus raised His trembling hand towards them, as if He wished to warn them: "While your husbands murder Me, you are melted to tears. Do not lament for Me, lament for yourselves and for your children, who will have to suffer for the sins of their fathers!" One of the women, heedless of the raging mob, tore the white kerchief from her head, and bent down to Him who was carrying the cross in order to wipe the blood and perspiration from His face. When she got back to her house and was about to wash the cloth, she saw on it—the face of the Prophet. And it seemed as if kindness and gratitude for her service of love looked out from its features at her. The women all came running up to see the miracle, and to haggle to get the cloth that bore such a picture for themselves. But its possessor locked it up in her room.

When Jesus fell beneath the cross for the third time, He was unable to get up again. The guards tugged and pulled Him; the Roman soldiers who accompanied them were too proud to carry the cross for this wretched Jew. So the crowd was invited to chose someone to lift up Jesus and drag the cross along. The only answer was scornful laughter. A hard-featured cobbler rushed out of a neighbouring house, and, almost foaming at the mouth with rage, demanded that the creature should be removed from before his door. "Customers will be frightened away," he cried.

"Let Him rest here for a moment," said one of the soldiers, pointing to the fallen man, whose breast heaved in short, violent spasms.

Then the cobbler swung a leathern strap and struck the exhausted man. He pulled Himself together in order to totter a few steps farther. An old man, full of years and very lonely, stood by. He had come from the desert where great thoughts dwell. He had come to see if Jerusalem was ascending upwards or sinking downwards. He desired its descent, for he longed for rest. The old man stood in front of the cobbler and said to him softly: "Grandson of Uriah! You refuse a brief rest to this poorest of poor creatures? You yourself will be everlastingly restless. You will experience human misery to the uttermost and never be able to rest. The curse of your people will be fulfilled in you—you heartless Jew!"

At that selfsame hour Simeon, the citizen, was sitting alone in his house thinking over his fate, and he was sad. Since the ride into the wilderness, from which he had returned beaten and robbed, he had, following the word of the Prophet from whom he had sought happiness, made many changes in his way of life. Impossible as it had then seemed, much had become possible. He had emancipated his slaves, broken up his harem, given the overflow of his possessions to the needy, and dispensed with all show. And yet he was not happy—his heart was bare and empty. He was pondering the matter when the shouting of the crowd reached him from the street. What was happening so early? He looked down, saw the spears of the soldiers glitter above the people's heads, and noted how one of the malefactors who was to be executed that day was being led out. Simeon was turning away from the disagreeable sight when he saw that the man was carrying the cross Himself, and how, ill-treated by the guards, He became weaker every moment, so that the cross struck noisily against the stones. In a flash he understood. Without stopping to think, he hurried into the street, and pushed his way to the tortured creature in order to help Him. And when he looked into the poor man's worn face, down which a tear ran, he was so overcome with pity that he placed himself under the cross, took it on his shoulder, and carried it along. The crowd howled; insults and mud were thrown at Simeon. He paid no heed, he scarcely observed it. He was absorbed in what he was doing; he only thought of his desire to help the unhappy creature who staggered along beside him to bear His load. A wondrous feeling stirred in him, an eager gladness that he had never known before. All the joy of his life was not to be compared with this bliss; he would have liked to go on for ever and ever by the side of this Man, helping Him to bear His load and loving Him.

Is that it? Is that what men call life? To be where Love is and to do what Love enjoins?