Pg 565 The Crowning with Thorns
:: Poem of the Man-God :: The Work "Poem of The Man-God" "The Gospel As Revealed to Me" :: Volume 5 :: The Passion
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Pg 565 The Crowning with Thorns
by Poem on Fri Jan 09, 2009 7:18 am
Then He squats in the sunshine. Because my Jesus is shivering… Fever begins to torture Him with its cold shivers. And He feels weak because of the blood He has lost, of fasting and walking so much. They tie His hands once again. And the rope begins to cut into His wrists, where the excoriated skin has left a mark like a red bracelet.
« And now? What shall we do with Him? I am bored! »
« Wait. The Jews want a king. Now we will give them one. Him… » says a soldier. And he runs out to a court that is in the back, from which he comes back with a bunch of branches of wild hawthorn, still flexible, because springtime keeps the branches relatively tender, whilst the long sharp thorns are hard. With a dagger they remove leaves and buds, they bend the branches forming a circle and they place them on His poor head. But the cruel crown falls down on His neck.
« It does not fit. Make it narrower. Take it off. »
They take it off and scratch His cheeks, risking to blind Him, and they tear off His hair in doing so. They make it smaller. Now it is too small, and although they press it down, driving the thorns into His head, it threatens to fall. They take it off once again, tearing more of His hair. They adjust it again. It now fits. At the front there are three thorny cords. At the back, where the ends of the three branches interweave, there is a real knot of thorns that penetrate into the nape of His neck.
« Do You see how well You look? Natural bronze and real rubies. Look at Yourself, o king, in my cuirass » says the inventor of the torture scoffingly.
« A crown is not sufficient to make a king. Purple and sceptre are required. In the stable there is a cane and in the sewer there is a red chlamys. Get them, Cornelius. » And once they have them, they put the dirty red rag on Jesus, shoulders, and before putting the cane in His hands, they beat His head with it, bowing and greeting: « Hail, king of the Jews » and they roar with laughter.
Jesus does not react. He lets them sit Him on the « throne »: a tub turned upside-down, certainly used to water horses, He lets them strike and scoff at Him, without ever uttering a word. He only looks at them, casting glances of such kindness and such atrocious sorrow that I cannot bear them without feeling heart-broken.
The soldiers stop sneering at Him only when the harsh voice of a superior orders them to take the guilty prisoner to Pilate. Guilty! Of what?
« And now? What shall we do with Him? I am bored! »
« Wait. The Jews want a king. Now we will give them one. Him… » says a soldier. And he runs out to a court that is in the back, from which he comes back with a bunch of branches of wild hawthorn, still flexible, because springtime keeps the branches relatively tender, whilst the long sharp thorns are hard. With a dagger they remove leaves and buds, they bend the branches forming a circle and they place them on His poor head. But the cruel crown falls down on His neck.
« It does not fit. Make it narrower. Take it off. »
They take it off and scratch His cheeks, risking to blind Him, and they tear off His hair in doing so. They make it smaller. Now it is too small, and although they press it down, driving the thorns into His head, it threatens to fall. They take it off once again, tearing more of His hair. They adjust it again. It now fits. At the front there are three thorny cords. At the back, where the ends of the three branches interweave, there is a real knot of thorns that penetrate into the nape of His neck.
« Do You see how well You look? Natural bronze and real rubies. Look at Yourself, o king, in my cuirass » says the inventor of the torture scoffingly.
« A crown is not sufficient to make a king. Purple and sceptre are required. In the stable there is a cane and in the sewer there is a red chlamys. Get them, Cornelius. » And once they have them, they put the dirty red rag on Jesus, shoulders, and before putting the cane in His hands, they beat His head with it, bowing and greeting: « Hail, king of the Jews » and they roar with laughter.
Jesus does not react. He lets them sit Him on the « throne »: a tub turned upside-down, certainly used to water horses, He lets them strike and scoff at Him, without ever uttering a word. He only looks at them, casting glances of such kindness and such atrocious sorrow that I cannot bear them without feeling heart-broken.
The soldiers stop sneering at Him only when the harsh voice of a superior orders them to take the guilty prisoner to Pilate. Guilty! Of what?
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