Matt.27.32 And as they came out, they found a man of Cyrene, Simon by name: him they compelled to bear his cross. (KJV)
The Roman soldiers were nothing short of brutal. Even though the naked man now sprawled on the ground was drenched in blood and trembling, they kept kicking, whipping and mocking him.
I’d been on my way to meet my sons in the next village to finalize arrangements to transport our latest shipment when I got slowed down by a mob.
Upon enquiry, I learned that the procession was headed for Golgotha and the subject of the ruckus was a man called Jesus of Nazareth. I’d heard whispers about him for over two years but I’d never met him face-to-face. Even my sons, Alexander and Rufus, had recounted tales of magnificent miracles they’d witnessed him perform during their journeys.
But I was skeptical. A Jewish Messiah who proclaimed himself as the son of God? Sounded to me like another bunch of religious mumbo-jumbo. As a Cyrenian, I was regarded as Gentile scum in the sight of these pompous Jews. I endured their contempt because I needed to do business along their borders.
Another lash of a spiked whip rang as it landed on Jesus’ back. I winced and a woman beside me clutched my arm for support. I glanced down at her. Her pale lips trembled.
“My- my son,” I heard her whisper in agony as torrents of tears flowed down her face.
Jesus didn’t even try to stand; the cross was on top of him. He just writhed and groaned loudly into the dust.
They’d kill this man before they even had the chance to crucify him. This torture was barbaric, no matter what his crime was.
“Stop! Stop it!” I cried out.
The soldier beating him halted and looked at me with bloodshot eyes.
“Oh really? Says who?”
“You’ve done enough already. The man will die of blood loss.”
The soldier sneered and narrowed his eyes at me.
“What is your name?”
I stood straighter, slightly spooked by his tone.
“I’m Simon of Cyrene.”
He looked me over, no doubt assessing my physique.
“Well, Simon of Cyrene, since you’re so eager to defend this condemned criminal, maybe you should carry his cross!”
I swallowed in panic and glanced at Jesus’ mother who had rushed to her son’s side to wipe his distorted, bleeding face.
My gut clenched. No woman should witness her son being brutalized this way.
My eyes travelled to Jesus himself and I was surprised to notice he was watching me.
One eye was swollen shut and the other barely open. He was a gruesome mess. Still, there was an unspoken message in his eyes. Foreknowledge of me and love, all weaving the ultimate question: ‘Will you carry my cross?’
With a single nod of my head, I sealed my fate. The Roman soldiers urged me to hasten as I bent to pick up the ragged wooden cross. Despite my defined muscles, the strain and pain of bearing the weight of this cross was excruciating.
Slowly, I began to plod up the uphill path that led to Golgotha. The rough surface of the cross began to cause my hands to blister.
All through the journey to Golgotha, memories of my sinful life flashed through my mind. For once, I was genuinely remorseful. I was so engrossed in my reprieve that I barely noticed the stones hurled at Jesus until a few hit me. One treacherous man had the guts to spit on him—I knew because the disgusting phlegm touched me.
We reached Golgotha and I dropped the cross to the ground in sweet relief. No one gave heed to me as I slipped to the back of the teeming crowd. No one but him. His glistening eyes were latched on mine, saying ‘Thank you.’
They grabbed him and shoved him roughly on to the cross. I shut my eyes but heard his shrieks as they drove the nails through his hands and feet.
I suspected that he had the power to free himself. Then why wouldn’t he do it? He was innocent; why wouldn’t he speak?
When he did speak, I was shocked by his words.
“Father forgive them, for they know not what they do…”
On hearing that, I could no longer take it, I ran and found a place to weep my heart out. For this man who, despite his anguish that warranted hatred, had forgiven everyone, especially me.
When I recovered and stood to resume my journey, I noticed, to my shock, that the sky was dark even though it was mid-day. A mighty tremor shook the ground. I had to lean against a tree to steady myself.
Even nature was mourning. This sealed my growing conviction that this man was divine.
Many days after his crucifixion, amid conspiracy theories surrounding this man whose cross I had borne, I would walk on the road to Emmaus with Cleopas, my friend. Jesus, alive and well, would join us, and my faith in him would soar.
In joyful bliss, after witnessing his ascension, I would join the other disciples in the upper room waiting for his promise. The Holy Spirit would be given to us all.
When the persecutions against the church heighten, I would be honoured to bear the cross yet again and die for my Lord.
~~~
Author’s Note: I wrote this story for Easter.
I think this Simon of Cyrene deserved a plaque for helping Jesus carry his cross. ✝️
I did my best to stick to the foundation of what was told us about him in scripture but I supplemented the blank slots with my imagination. 💖
If you enjoyed this story, kindly show some love by sharing the story with a friend or hundreds and leave a beautiful comment too.
I love you all. Remember that Jesus loves us most. I mean, what further proof do we need? 🥹
