“Pick up the cross,” thundered one soldier.
He looked at the soldier; his eyes were bright like the morning star and pure like a dew drop. The soldier felt unnerved.
No instrument of torture had been left untried and no part of his body had been left unscarred; but the pain had failed to ignite any hatred or anger or remorse in his eyes.
The soldiers forced him to pick up the cross and then brutally pushed him through the crowd.
In the crowd, his followers were trying to remain as inconspicuous as was possible. But all of them were anxiously waiting for a miracle to happen.
And then in the heart of each one of them his words rang, “Your wait for the miracle is fruitless; just remember and try to follow my teachings; eventually each one of you will have to bear your own cross.”
They all looked at him. They all saw his eyes; his eyes were serene and pure as ever.
They wept, not for him, but for themselves.
A post for A to Z April (2015) Challenge
Letter C, C for Cross
You may like to read my earlier posts