…when he could have called upon

the powers of 10,000 angels?

His cross was heavy.

The splinters, sharp and jagged.

He was bleeding from a Roman scourging.

He was exhausted from a night and a day of pain.

The turn-coat-crowd who had, just days before,

lauded Him,

laid palms before Him,

sang psalms to Him.

Hozannah!!!!

that night had spit on Him.

Reviled His name.

Pilot had bowed to them and washed his hands.

His own disciples ran in fear from His suffering

they could not bare.

His Petros, who He had named

became the three-time-denier,

cursing, “I never knew him!!”

when the cock crowed thrice.

Why did he go on, carrying His cross?

Well,

I will offer you an answer which

may

sufice

through this dark night,

at least.

Because He believed

if he carried it to The Place of The Skull,

we, by our faith in His faith,

need never carry our own.