The Sky Went Dark When He Bowed His Head
3 hours of silence. Until he could say "It Is Finished".
The Past 24 Hours
It’s almost too much to take in.
In the span of a single day, Jesus has been praised, betrayed, abandoned, interrogated, beaten, mocked… and now condemned.
The Last Supper, that intimate moment of bread and wine, foot-washing and sorrow, it feels like a distant memory.
Since then…
He walked into Gethsemane, carrying a weight only He could feel.
He fell on His face in the garden, crying out for another way—yet still said yes.
He was betrayed with a kiss and arrested in the dark.
Bound like a criminal while his disciples fled.
Dragged to Annas, then to Caiaphas, then to the council at dawn.
Blindfolded.
Struck.
Spit on.
Mocked.
And still, He didn’t resist.
The Son of God, silent before priests who pretended to serve His Father.
Condemned by the very men who should have bowed at His feet.
And now, it’s morning.
He’s been awake all night.
He hasn’t eaten.
He hasn’t slept.
His face is bruised.
His wrists are still bound.
His body already aching.
And now they hand Him over to Pilate, because it wasn’t enough for Him to be rejected by Israel.
They wanted the world to say no to Him too…
As I write this, I feel that this is more than an article. This is my best effort at a sacred act of witness to the greatest act of sacrificial love this world has ever seen. And this was written with tears streaming down my face. This took me days to write, I couldn’t get through it in one day, and yet JESUS did.
I hope that my earnest attempt to honor where words fall short, that you will feel a stirring in your spirit as well, and that it might inspire deeper love and worship to The One who is worthy of ALL praise and honor.
This is Article 5 in a 7-part series on the last week of Jesus’ life. If you missed the lead-in article that is the background to this reflection, you can read it here:
The Unbearable Weight of Perfection: Wrestling with Jesus' Humanity
Here are the other articles in the series:
1 - Welcomed With Palms, Left with Silence
2 - Righteous Fire in a Holy Place
3 - The Table, The Garden and The Kiss
4 - Condemned By Cowards
6 - The Veil Was Torn, The Earth Trembled, and the Grave Was Silent
7 - Before the Stone Was Rolled Away
The Priesthood That Chose Murder
Hypocrite feels too soft a word.
It doesn’t carry the weight to describe men who wore garments designed by God,
and used them to cover violence.
Not for men who were meant to intercede for the people,
and instead conspired to destroy the only One who could truly save them.
These weren’t just religious men who misunderstood the moment.
They were priests who plotted to kill the fulfillment of everything they claimed to represent.
The very priesthood that was once chosen by God—set apart, consecrated, made holy—had now become the machinery of murder.
They didn’t tremble before the Messiah.
They tore their robes.
They handed Him over.
And the blood they were about to shed was the only blood that could ever make them clean.
Delivered to Pilate
“Then they led Jesus from Caiaphas into the Praetorium,
and it was early; and they themselves did not enter the Praetorium
so that they would not be defiled, but might eat the Passover.”
—John 18:28
It’s almost too bitter to comprehend.
The very men who condemned the Son of God to death…
refused to enter a Gentile building… for fear of ritual defilement.
Their hands were about to be soaked in innocent blood.
But they wanted to keep their robes clean.
They wouldn’t defile themselves by entering Pilate’s court…
But they delivered the Son of God—Beaten and Bound but still willing— to be judged by it.
Pilate: The Reluctant Judge
“So Pilate came out to them and said, ‘What accusation do you bring against this Man?’”
—John 18:29
They don’t even answer directly.
Because they don’t have an accusation that would stand in a Roman court.
“If this Man were not a criminal,
we would not have handed Him over to you.” —John 18:30
It’s vague.
It’s manipulative.
And it reeks of religious leaders trying to coerce a political leader
into doing what they didn’t have the legal right to do.
Pilate isn’t impressed.
“Take Him yourselves and judge Him according to your law.” —John 18:31
But they can’t.
Because Rome had stripped them of the authority to carry out executions.
They didn’t want justice.
They wanted death.
And they needed Pilate to sign off on it.
“We are not permitted to put anyone to death.” —John 18:31
They had already pronounced the sentence.
Now they needed someone else to pull the trigger.
And standing before them…
was the only One who had ever kept the law perfectly.
I was reflecting on the timing of all of this.
They had sought to stone Jesus before but failed.
It had to be this way, with this timing.
This wasn’t a divine accident.
And it wasn’t human justice.
It was a willing Son, meeting a broken world,
in the exact moment where sin, power, and pride collided…
so that mercy could rise from the ashes.
“Are You the King of the Jews?”
“Therefore Pilate entered again into the Praetorium, and summoned Jesus and said to Him,
‘Are You the King of the Jews?’” —John 18:33
That’s how Pilate greets Jesus.
Not with curiosity. Not with awe.
He’s probably mediated over Jewish disputes before, and this felt like just another nuisance to sort out.
Just a flat question. A bureaucratic tone.
He’s not interested in theology.
He’s interested in keeping the peace.
Pilate was the governor of Judea, a Roman prefect.
He was answerable to Caesar, but disposable if needed.
He definitely didn’t hold power because of virtue or popularity.
He held power because he kept order. That’s all Rome asked of him.
And if he failed, it would be his own demise.
So when the priests handed Jesus over with vague talk of kingship,
Pilate had one job:
Figure out if this man was a threat to Caesar.
And standing in front of him was a man with no army,
no wealth, no violence in His eyes.
But there was something else in Jesus eyes,
authority Pilate couldn’t understand.
Jesus, no matter his human state, was Heavenly nobility, and still in this moment, possessed the power of heaven in his hands.
Jesus understood that Pilate’s power was weak and temporary, and borrowed.
I’m in awe of Jesus in this moment.
Because right here real power has stepped into the room.
Not shouting.
Not threatening.
Just… present.
The Weight and Power of Heaven's authority, meeting human bureaucracy.
The Son of God, silent in strength, facing a governor who doesn't know how small he actually is.
And I can feel it: This is what true majesty looks like.
He doesn’t beg.
He doesn’t argue.
He just says:
“Are you saying this on your own,
or did others tell you about Me?” —John 18:34
He turns the question back on Pilate.
Not to escape.
But to expose.
Because Jesus isn’t here to defend Himself.
He’s here to reveal hearts. Even the heart of a Roman governor who thought he held the power.
“My Kingdom Is Not of This World”
Pilate doesn’t know how to respond so he deflects:
“I am not a Jew, am I?
Your own nation and the chief priests handed You over to me.
What have You done?” —John 18:35
But Jesus doesn’t give him a list of miracles.
He doesn’t tell him about calming storms or healing lepers.
He doesn’t recount teachings or parables or prophecies fulfilled.
He simply tells the truth.
“My kingdom is not of this world.
If My kingdom were of this world,
My servants would be fighting so that I would not be handed over to the Jews.
But as it is, My kingdom is not from here.” —John 18:36
It’s not political.
It’s not military.
It’s not what Pilate can understand.
Because this isn’t just a conversation about kingship.
It’s about eternity.
Jesus is making it clear—He is a King. THE KING.
But not the kind Rome can control.
Not the kind men can vote in or out.
Not the kind who raises armies…
but the kind who lays down His life.
And Pilate?
A man in a position that others fought, betrayed, and killed to obtain…
A man who lived under the constant shadow of Rome,
gripping power with both hands just to survive—
How could he even begin to fathom this?
THIS man standing before him,
wielding unparalleled power,
yet choosing—deliberately—to yield His life.
No threats.
No negotiation.
Just a quiet declaration:
“My kingdom is not from here.”
Because the kingdom of heaven doesn’t look like Caesar’s.
It doesn’t come with legions.
It comes with a cross.
“So You Are a King?”
“Therefore Pilate said to Him,
‘So You are a king?’” —John 18:37
I wonder if perhaps Pilate is puzzled here.
He’s not asking a question of recognition.
He’s trying to fit Jesus into a box that Rome understands.
But Jesus doesn’t belong in any of them.
This battered man in dirty common clothes wields an undeniable spirit of power… power under unparalleled control.
And Jesus answers:
“You say correctly that I am a king.
For this purpose I have been born, and for this I have come into the world:
to testify to the truth.
Everyone who is of the truth listens to My voice.” —John 18:37
He doesn’t just confirm He’s a king.
He names His mission.
“For this I have come…”
Not to conquer Rome.
Not to rally a rebellion.
Not to climb a throne made of gold.
But to testify to the truth.
And to die for the people who had silenced it.
“What is Truth?”
“Pilate said to Him, ‘What is truth?’” —John 18:38
I can’t say for certain what tone he used.
Maybe it was confusion.
Maybe sarcasm.
Maybe annoyance.
Pilate lived in a world of shadows—a regime where truth was dictated by whoever held the sword.
Under Rome, truth was transactional.
It was whatever kept the people quiet and Caesar pleased.
It was manipulated, traded, and twisted to maintain control.
And now, Pilate stands in front of a man who isn’t playing the game.
A man with unlimited power, refusing to save Himself.
Refusing to lie. Refusing to resist.
He was witnessing something that confronted everything he had known.
Because Truth wasn’t a concept.
It was a person.
And that Person was standing right in front of him.
“I Find No Guilt in Him”
“And after saying this, he went out again to the Jews and said to them,
‘I find no guilt in Him.’” —John 18:38
Pilate doesn’t want to carry this weight.
He’s seen enough trials to know when something’s off.
And he’s no fool.
He’s a man who survives the backstabbing politics of Rome by reading people.
By staying two steps ahead.
By knowing when someone’s dangerous, and when they’re just a pawn.
And Jesus?
There was nothing in His appearance that suggested power.
Battered in dirty clothes.
No threat in His posture.
No defiance in His eyes.
And yet… there was something about Him.
His silence.
His words.
His presence.
The unexplainable power this man possessed in his spirit…
It was unsettling.
Because Pilate may have been a political predator,
but now he stood in the presence of real holiness.
And when he looks at Jesus…
it doesn’t match the hatred outside.
The venom.
The shouting.
The bloodlust in the voices of religious men.
“This man isn’t like them.”
Pilate can feel it.
But he doesn’t know what to do with it.
A Political Pawn Passed Between Kings
Pilate didn’t want this on his hands.
When he learned that Jesus was from Galilee, he saw a way out.
Herod Antipas ruled Galilee. And he just so happened to be in Jerusalem for the Passover.
So Pilate sent Jesus away to Herod.
Another ruler. Another court. Another round of mockery.
“When Herod saw Jesus, he was very glad; for he had wanted to see Him for a long time… hoping to see some sign performed by Him.” —Luke 23:8
Herod didn’t want truth. He wanted a show.
A miracle. A spectacle.
“And he questioned Him at some length; but He answered him nothing.” —Luke 23:9
Not a word.
Because Herod had silenced the voice of God when he had John the Baptist beheaded.
So Herod, insulted by His silence, joined in the mockery.
They dressed Jesus in a gorgeous robe, a joke at His supposed royalty.
And then sent Him back to Pilate.
“Herod and Pilate became friends with one another that very day; for before they had been enemies.” —Luke 23:12
Jesus became a bridge.
Not of peace. But of politics.
Two corrupt leaders, once divided, now joined in their shared apathy toward truth. Their shared refusal to act justly.
And still, Jesus said nothing.
No defense. No accusation.
Because this was not a trial.
It was a surrender.
An Attempt to Release Him
“But you have a custom that I release someone for you at the Passover;
so do you want me to release for you the King of the Jews?” —John 18:39
Pilate was a political survivor. A seasoned manipulator who knew how to survive Roman politics by keeping his hands clean while others bled.
He’s not righteous. But he’s skilled at saving his own skin.
And now, he sees another loophole. Another way out.
A tradition during Passover: release one prisoner to the people.
Let the crowd choose.
“Let them decide. Let the blame fall on them.”
It’s cowardly. But clever.
And in his mind, it’s foolproof.
“Surely they’ll choose Jesus,”
he must have thought.
“Surely they won’t choose Barabbas…”
Barabbas … The Murderer
Barabbas wasn’t a random name.
He was a man condemned to die for committing murder.
He was no hero. He was fully guilty of one of the most heinous crimes.
He had broken the sixth commandment:
“You shall not murder.” —Exodus 20:13
He had shed innocent blood.
He was guilty, not just by Roman law, but by God’s own law.
No one would have blinked had he been executed that day.
The Crowd Chooses
Pilate offered them a choice: A miracle worker, the Son of God … Or a murderer.
This is where public morality collapses and mob rule is on full display.
“But the chief priests stirred up the crowd to ask him to release Barabbas for them instead.” —Mark 15:11
“They all cried out together, saying, ‘Away with this man, and release for us Barabbas!’” —Luke 23:18
This wasn’t just a betrayal, it was spiritual blindness.
At least on the part of the people. But to the chief priests, they wielded their authority to get their way.
This was calculated, and they thought they were winning.
Religious power, mob mentality, the crowd was poisoned.
And Pilate STILL knew this was wrong.
The Innocent Condemned
Barabbas was guilty.
Jesus was not.
And yet, the guilty walks free.
And the Holy One is handed over.
No protest.
No resistance.
Just a silent surrender.
Because Jesus wasn’t just taking Barabbas’ place.
He was taking ours.
He was pierced for our transgressions.
He was crushed for our iniquities.
The punishment that brought us peace was upon Him. —Isaiah 53:5
The cross wasn’t just punishment.
It was a trade.
And the guilty man walked away that day…
because the Lamb of God stood in his place.
And as much as I want to rail against the injustice, I don’t want to forget my own sin.
My own sin, that unforgiven, would condemn me to separation from God.
Scourged and Mocked
“Then Pilate took Jesus and had Him scourged.” —John 19:1 (NASB95)
It’s just one verse.
But behind that single sentence is unimaginable brutality.
This wasn’t a symbolic punishment.
It wasn’t just for show.
It was Rome’s expertise on full display.
A calculated, methodical tearing of flesh designed to break a man before the nails ever touched him.
They called this the “halfway death”.
Jesus was most likely stripped…
tied to a post…
back fully exposed.
Arms bound. Skin stretched tight. Vulnerable.
And then came the scourge.
A Roman flagrum.
Leather straps, embedded with bone, metal, and lead.
Each lash designed not just to hurt, but to open Him up.
To lacerate.
To shred.
To reduce the body of the Son of God into something almost unrecognizable.
He didn’t just bleed.
He was scourged.
And He didn’t resist.
He stood there, arms tied, back torn open, carrying the full weight of judgment with every lash.
And it should have been us.
The Sound of the Scourge
I keep coming back to that word:
“Scourged.”
Just one word in the text. But I can’t move past it.
Because behind that word is a sound.
The whip didn’t strike quietly.
It would have whistled through the air—a sharp, cutting sound.
Like a snake uncoiling at full speed.
Then—impact.
A wet, tearing slap.
Leather and bone crashing against flesh.
The sickening crack of the lead weights as they struck muscle.
The rip as skin gave way.
Jesus’ body would involuntarily heave at the pain response.
And again.
CRACK!
And again.
CRACK!
And again.
CRACK!
We don’t know how many times.
The Roman guards weren’t counting.
They could take their time. He was just another dead man.
They could have taken turns.
They weren’t bound by Jewish law.
They didn’t have to stop at thirty-nine.
They could have kept going until they were satisfied.
Until His back was an unrecognizable bloody mess.
Until His legs were trembling.
Until the Lamb of God looked less like a man and more like a sacrifice.
And He took it.
Not one cry for mercy.
Not one word to stop them.
No curse.
No resistance.
Just the steady resolve of the Son of God,
choosing to endure what we deserved.
“By His stripes, we are healed.” —Isaiah 53:5
“Stripes”
You would think we were talking about a fabric pattern.
We’re referring to bloody wounds across his back.
I would be broken and crying for mercy after the first lash.
And the hardest part is this:
I feel sick to my stomach, typing these words.
I want to look away.
But if I do… I’ll never understand the cost.
They Dressed Him Like a Joke
Herod’s men had mocked Jesus in a robe.
Now it was Pilate’s men.
A soldier steps forward.
Clothed in the armor of Rome.
The leather, the steel, the crest on his chest, he bears the weight of Caesar’s authority.
His job is to maintain order.
To intimidate.
To enforce.
But now, he joins in something else.
Mockery.
He doesn’t see a king.
He sees a bruised man, bent from flogging.
Blood pooling at His feet.
A face swollen from the strikes of his comrades.
And he laughs.
Maybe he thinks it’s funny.
The idea that someone like this could be royalty.
That a prisoner, bound, broken, could be dangerous.
Maybe he’s seen insurrectionists before and watched Rome crush them.
So he plays along.
He wraps Jesus in a purple robe—the color of emperors.
It clings to the open wounds on His back.
Clots into His scourged flesh.
And still… Jesus stands.
Then comes the crown
“And after twisting together a crown of thorns,
they put it on His head, and a reed in His right hand;
and they knelt before Him and mocked Him, saying,
‘Hail, King of the Jews!’
And they spit on Him,
and took the reed and began to beat Him on the head.”
—Matthew 27:29–30
The thorns.
Pressed into His head with force.
Blood now pouring down His face.
What Kind of Thorns?
Scholars believe the crown was likely woven from the Ziziphus Spina-Christi plant,
common in Jerusalem, and also known as the Christ’s Thorn Jujube.
Its thorns were long, rigid, and razor-sharp
Often 1 to 2 inches in length
Strong enough to pierce skin and scratch bone
These weren’t rose thorns.
These were nails in vine form, driven into the most sensitive area of the body.
Not gently placed.
But jammed down.
Piercing scalp, skin, and nerves.
The head bleeds easily.
And viciously.
With every strike, the crown would have dug deeper.
Now this soldier…
This man with rank and training and armor,
kneels in mockery before the Son of God.
“Hail, King of the Jews!”
After the crown of thorns was forced onto His head…
They gave Him a reed as if it were a scepter.
A joke. A prop. A mockery of authority.
And then, they took that same reed out of His hand…
and began to beat Him with it.
On the head.
Blow after blow.
The thorns already piercing His scalp, now driven deeper, pressed harder against His skull.
The pain would have radiated through His entire face.
Tearing skin.
Triggering nerves.
Blood pouring down into His eyes.
And still… He did not resist.
Strength Beyond My Ability To Describe
I am witnessing unbelievable strength.
Not the kind that fights back.
The kind that refuses to escape.
The kind that stays.
And this is the part that breaks me:
He could have stopped it.
With a single breath
He could have paralyzed them in fear.
Unleashed fire from heaven.
Called down twelve legions of angels.
He could have tortured them.
He could have crushed them.
But instead, He endured them.
For us.
For me.
And yes—This is why every knee will bow.
Because when the crown was made of thorns—He wore it.
Because when the robe was a mockery—He stood there.
Because when the fists came—He didn’t flinch.
He held all power.
And chose love.
And I imagine, if only for a second, Jesus looked into this soldier’s eyes.
Not with hatred.
Not with fury.
But with the quiet power of mercy held back.
Because Jesus could have summoned heaven.
Instead… He offered silence.
He let the weight of Rome strike Him, while carrying the weight of the world.
Where Words Fail and Worship Begins
There’s a stirring in my spirit that I can’t fully express.
I’m watching Jesus—beaten, bloodied, mocked—and something deeper than thought rises in me.
It’s not just sorrow.
It’s not just reverence.
It’s a kind of silent awe that overwhelms language.
Because what I’m witnessing as I write this… words cannot contain.
This isn’t false humility.
This is the limit of what my mind can grasp.
The boundary of my human condition.
Even my best words feel small, feeble, unworthy.
And still, my spirit bows.
Because this is where worship begins.
Not in eloquence.
But in the tears that fall quietly, as I’m writing.
In my heart I’m trying to say:
“Jesus… I see You.”
I cannot do justice to this moment.
But I will not look away.
And I will honor You, as best as my trembling soul knows how.
Behold, the Man
“Jesus then came out, wearing the crown of thorns and the purple robe.
And Pilate said to them, ‘Behold, the Man!’” —John 19:5
This wasn’t a formal presentation.
This wasn’t a verdict.
This was Pilate’s last attempt to avoid it.
He’s hoping the crowd will see what he sees:
A man barely standing.
Beaten.
Mocked.
Bleeding.
He’s not a threat.
He’s not a revolutionary.
He’s a man already crushed beneath their hatred.
“Look at Him,” Pilate says.
“Isn’t this enough?”
But even in Pilate’s plea, he says more than he knows.
“Behold… the Man.”
And something in that phrase brings me to silence.
Because this is not just a man.
This is THE Man.
The Second Adam.
The Righteous One.
The Image of God in torn flesh.
The Son of God… in the condition of man.
And there He stands.
Crowned with thorns.
Wearing a mock robe.
His back ripped open.
His face covered in spit and blood.
And He doesn’t speak.
He just stands there.
Carrying all of it.
Crucify Him
“So when the chief priests and the officers saw Him, they shouted, saying,
‘Crucify, crucify!’
Pilate said to them, ‘Take Him yourselves and crucify Him, for I find no guilt in Him.’”
—John 19:6
Pilate hoped the beating would be enough.
He thought if he gave them blood, they wouldn’t demand more.
But the crowd doesn’t flinch.
The priests see their chance.
They’ve stirred the people.
The chant rises: “Crucify Him!”
And Pilate—still trying to wash his hands of it—says again:
“I find no guilt in Him.”
But finding no guilt wasn’t the same as doing what was right.
And Pilate knows that if he doesn’t give them what they want…
he may lose everything.
Pilate’s Final Surrender
“When Pilate saw that he was accomplishing nothing, but rather that a riot was starting,
he took water and washed his hands in front of the crowd, saying,
‘I am innocent of this Man’s blood; see to that yourselves.’”
—Matthew 27:24
It’s the gesture of a man trying to walk away from responsibility.
Trying to appear clean… while handing over the sinless One to be killed.
“I find no guilt in Him…”
And still—he delivers Him to die.
He gives the order not because Jesus is guilty, but because it’s easier to condemn Him than to face the consequences of defending Him.
Pilate fears the crowd.
He fears Caesar.
And now—he lets fear write the verdict.
And the irony…
He washes his hands, while condemning the only One who can truly wash us clean.
Handed Over to Be Crucified
“Then he handed Him over to them to be crucified.”
—John 19:16
That’s all the text says.
But what it means… is that Jesus, the Son of God, was now officially under the sentence of death.
The governor’s seal.
The Roman system.
The brutal machinery of execution now rolling forward.
Not because He was guilty.
But because He was silent.
He understood that his death was the only way.
The Weight He Carried
After the sentence was passed, Jesus was likely forced to carry the crossbeam—called the patibulum.
It wouldn’t have been the full cross, just the horizontal bar.
But even that…
Was likely 75 to 125 pounds
Made of rough, unfinished wood
Designed to be a burden, not a mercy
And it would have been laid across His shoulders, the same shoulders that had just been scourged until the skin was torn, raw, and bleeding.
Flesh already broken.
Muscles already spasming.
Now pressed against heavy, splintered timber.
Every step would have been agony.
Every movement sent shockwaves through open wounds.
And still, He walked.
How Long Was the Walk?
The distance from the Praetorium to Golgotha is estimated at 600 to 650 yards.
Roughly a third of a mile.
The walk was through crowded streets, on uneven, dusty ground,
under Jerusalem’s early afternoon sun.
For a healthy man, it might take 10–15 minutes.
But for Jesus?
With blood loss.
With a shredded back.
With swollen limbs.
With no sleep.
With no food.
With no physical strength left.
It could have taken over an hour.
He may have fallen once.
Or many times.
The Jeering Crowd
This wasn’t a somber procession.
It was public spectacle.
A chance for the crowd to gawk.
To mock.
To spit.
The same city that once cried “Hosanna” now jeered.
Possibly even the same voices that praised Him… now sneered at His weakness because he couldn’t conquer Rome.
“You saved others—save Yourself!”
“Where’s your kingdom now?”
The spirit of defiance, of smug superiority, dripped from their mouths like venom.
They saw weakness and thought it meant He wasn’t who He claimed to be.
But they didn’t understand…
It was the strength of love that kept Him putting one foot in front of the other, when his body could hardly bear to continue.
Pressed But Still Walking
Jesus didn’t carry the cross because He was strong.
He carried it because He was willing.
With every ounce of strength in His body…
He moved forward.
Not to escape.
But to finish.
To fulfill prophecy.
To take our place.
To reach the altar where the Lamb would be slain.
Simon of Cyrene
“And when they led Him away, they seized a man, Simon of Cyrene,
coming in from the country, and placed on him the cross to carry behind Jesus.”
—Luke 23:26
At some point along the road… Jesus collapsed.
His body—already pushed beyond what any human should survive—
couldn’t carry the beam any farther.
And the soldiers, not out of compassion but out of urgency,
looked for someone, anyone, to carry the load.
And they found Simon.
When he woke up that morning, I wonder if he had any idea what was in store for him.
He Carried the Cross of Christ
The soldiers forced it onto his back.
The same beam, stained with Jesus’ with blood.
Soaked from the Lamb who had borne it thus far.
Heavy. Rough. Shameful.
Simon didn’t know the full story.
He may not have even known Jesus’ name.
But he helped Him finish the journey.
When Jesus had nothing left to give physically,
God raised up a man to help carry the sacrifice to the altar.
And I wonder, what did Simon think as he heard His breathing?
Did he see His eyes?
Did he feel the weight of the moment—not just on his back, but in his spirit?
Jesus, not trying to escape, but with every step, every ounce of strength, trying to get to the place where his sacrifice would be complete.
Simon is often unheralded.
But he helped Jesus get there.
And now… his name is known forever.
Because he stood behind the Savior, and helped carry the cross that carried the weight of the world.
Arriving at Golgotha
I don’t understand how He made it.
Not just emotionally. Not symbolically.
Physiologically.
After the scourging…
After the beatings…
After the crown of thorns…
After carrying the crossbeam with shredded shoulders and collapsing strength…
How was He still alive?
Roman scourging alone was often enough to kill a man.
Jesus had likely lost massive amounts of blood.
He was dehydrated.
In shock.
Unable to stand on His own.
And yet—He reached the hill.
The place of execution.
The altar of wood.
Golgotha.
From a medical standpoint, He shouldn’t have made it this far.
But He wasn’t being held together by adrenaline.
He was being held together by purpose.
“I lay down My life… No one takes it from Me.” —John 10:17–18
And here, yet again, I bow in spirit.
Because any other man would have died already.
Collapsed from trauma.
Given in to unconsciousness.
Given up.
But not Jesus.
He endured even more.
He bore the pain longer.
Because He refused to die until His offering was complete.
And this part… this humbles me more than I can say:
He never sinned.
Not once.
Not even under the weight of this.
Not in exhaustion.
Not in agony.
Not in injustice.
He didn’t curse the guards.
He didn’t lash out.
He didn’t grow bitter.
He stayed sinless.
So He could be our spotless sacrifice.
And so—with blood-soaked shoulders, and breath ragged in His lungs,
He climbed the hill.
Because His Divine Love would not stop halfway.
The Nails
“It was the third hour when they crucified Him.”
—Mark 15:25
The third hour—9:00 AM.
They laid Him down.
The same hands that healed the sick,
That lifted the broken,
That calmed storms and held children,
Now stretched out on wood.
His back—already shredded from the scourging— pressed against the rough grain of the crossbeam.
Then came the nails.
These weren’t fine carpenter’s nails.
They were iron spikes, likely 5 to 7 inches long.
Rough. Forged. Cold.
Designed to hold, not comfort.
They drove them through His wrists, just below the palm, between the bones, where the structure of the arm could bear the weight without tearing through the flesh.
The nerve endings there, in particular, the median nerve, would send searing, radiating pain through His entire arm, shoulder, and chest.
And then, with His arms nailed in place, they used ropes to hoist the crossbeam upward.
Not a smooth gentle process.
The vertical post—the stipes—was already fixed in the ground.
It stood waiting like an altar.
The soldiers lifted the crossbeam and positioned it onto the post,
suspending Jesus by the nails in His wrists.
His body now hung.
His lungs began to collapse.
The weight of His own frame began to suffocate Him.
But they weren’t done.
While He hung there, with his arms stretched wide, the flesh on his back tearing with every sway, they nailed His feet.
Most likely one foot over the other, a single iron spike driven through both
into a small platform or directly into the upright beam.
And Yet—He Spoke
He didn’t just hang in silence.
He spoke.
With a body barely clinging to life…
With torn flesh and dislocated joints…
With His lungs collapsing under the weight of His own frame…
He still spoke.
And to speak, He had to push Himself up on the spike through His feet…
Drag His scourged back, raw and bloodied, up the rough wood…
And force breath into His lungs…
Just long enough to let the words out.
Every. Word. Cost. Everything.
Yet he would not be silent.
He Prayed. He Comforted. He Interceded.
I am at a loss for words to describe this selflessness…
The intensity.
The brutality.
The suffering…
And yet—He speaks.
With lungs collapsing.
With torn flesh straining against nails.
With His back shredded against wood.
He prays. For Them.
“Father, forgive them,
for they know not what they do.”
—Luke 23:34
He’s speaking of the soldiers.
The mockers.
The men gambling for His clothes at His feet.
He forgives them.
As they crucify Him.
And then, even in His own agony…
He comforts.
One of the criminals beside Him begins to see.
Not just a dying man.
But a dying King.
And in one final breath of faith,
he says:
“Jesus, remember me when You come into Your kingdom.”
—Luke 23:42
And Jesus, in blood and agony, replies:
“Truly I say to you,
today you will be with Me in Paradise.”
—Luke 23:43
Every word. Every breath. Agony.
And even then…
He provides.
At the foot of the cross, His mother stands.
And beside her, the disciple whom He loved.
Jesus looks down through swollen eyes.
His body shaking just to inhale.
And He says:
“Woman, behold your son.”
Then He said to the disciple,
“Behold your mother.”
—John 19:26–27
Even now, with his dying breath, He’s still caring for others.
The Sixth Hour — The Sky Goes Dark
“Now from the sixth hour,
darkness fell upon all the land until the ninth hour.”
—Matthew 27:45
Noon.
When the sun should have been at its highest,
the sky went black.
Not clouds.
Not a passing storm.
Darkness.
Creation mourning as the Son of God bore the weight of the world’s sin.
God turned His face away.
Not in coldness.
But in grief.
A Father who had always been present…
now withdrawing from the Son He loves,
because Jesus had to become sin itself.
And for three hours, He hung in silence.
No comfort.
No communion.
No word from heaven.
Why Three Hours?
We don’t know every whisper in the dark.
But we know what He did not say.
He did not curse.
He did not call for angels.
He did not give up.
He stayed.
And here’s what breaks my heart:
Jesus—the strongest man who ever lived—endured three hours of hell before He cried out.
He withstood everything man could do to Him.
But when the presence of the Father was gone, His suffering was all but unbearable.
And that tells us something terrible and true:
If He, the perfect Son of God, could barely endure three hours of separation from God the Father…
What hope would we have of enduring it in Hell for eternity?
He tasted it.
He endured it.
So we wouldn’t have to.
And then… when it could not go one second longer,
He cried out…
The Final Offering
Jesus didn’t simply die.
He offered.
This was not collapse.
This was not resignation.
This was completion.
He had endured it all:
Not one lash short.
Not one insult unendured.
Not one prophecy left unfulfilled.
He would not yield until His last breath could seal the covenant in blood.
“My God, My God, Why Have You Forsaken Me?”
And then, He spoke.
After hours of silence, the Lamb cried out, not with weakness, but with truth.
“My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?” —Matthew 27:46
The Son of God, crying not in doubt, but declaring the psalm of the forsaken, Psalm 22.
He tasted hell. Full separation from God, His Father, so that we wouldn’t have to.
“I thirst.” —John 19:28
Two words, fulfilling prophecy (Psalm 69:21)
Not just pain, but purpose. Every scripture, every shadow, now complete.
“It is finished.” —John 19:30
Not a whisper. A victory cry.
In Greek: Tetelestai. Meaning Paid in full. Accomplished. Complete.
The work is done. The debt canceled.
“Father, into Your hands I commit My spirit.” —Luke 23:46
His final breath… was one of trust.
The judgment complete, the curse broken.
He yields, not in defeat, but in surrender.
God the Father could not ask for one more thing from this spotless Lamb.
I cannot say this with enough conviction:
He did not pass out.
He did not slip away.
He was not overtaken.
He offered.
He yielded His life, but only when it was finished.
Every detail fulfilled Scripture.
Every word, every wound, every moment.
From Psalms to Isaiah to Zechariah, it all pointed to Him.
And when the last word had been spoken…
when the sky still hung black…
when the final prophecy was complete.
He gave His spirit back to the Father.
And Here… All I Can Do Is Bow My Head
And here, beneath a sky that went dark,
with the final words of Jesus still echoing in my spirit…
All I can do is bow my head, with tears in my eyes.
It is finished.
When I started this Easter series, I thought each article might take a few hours to write.
But this one… This sacred reflection took me days.
Not because I didn’t know what to say,
but because I couldn’t say it all at once.
I had to stop.
And sit.
And let my spirit catch up to the truth.
And please, don’t hear that as a statement about me.
Even now, at its completion, this still feels inadequate to capture the depth of what He endured.
The love I uncovered.
The layers of meaning.
The sacrifice beyond comprehension.
But I wrote this the only way I could, with reverence, with trembling, and with tears.
This seems like such a trite ask, after pouring my heart into this article. But would you consider leaving a comment, and perhaps even restacking this, if you’re on Substack.
I hope this helps people to see and love Jesus more fully.
If people only read one article I’ve ever written, I would love it to be this one 🙏
Coming Next
From the moment He yielded His spirit…
What happened next?
What took place in the stillness
between His final breath
and His victorious resurrection?
From the foot of the cross,
to the place where He was tenderly laid to rest…
to the mystery of the silence that followed…
I want to dwell in that space.
Not to rush.
But to honor it.
Because even in the grave…
He was still doing something holy.
The Veil Was Torn, The Earth Trembled, and the Grave Was Silent
I want to come back again to the foot of the Cross.
Jonathan, I needed several pauses reading this today. Thank you for the details and honesty. Writing is your gift and we gain from it immensely.
"so they would not defile themselves!" I must remind myself that this is my (our) default position: self-preservation. But Jesus showed us the power in surrender. Still. Today. Thank you, Jonathan. A vital exercise in bearing witness, acknowledging His Kingship.