Mary at the Cross

An extract from my work in progress © 2023 Bobbie Ann Cole

“Mary joined the crucifixion procession as Jesus, beaten and bleeding, left the Praetorium that Friday morning, flanked by two other prisoners and Roman soldiers.

It pained Mary to watch him stumble, eyes dulled, his face drained of color. He was covered with blood, trickling down from the ring of sharp thorns on his head, oozing from the mess of hanging flesh across his back.  

No doubt, Mary’s footsteps were leaden as she followed, her elbows supported by two of Jesus’ women followers who were all wailing and weeping. Abruptly, Jesus turned back. “Daughters of Jerusalem don’t weep for me.” His voice was thready. “Weep for yourselves and your children.”

He surged forward as the guards prodded him with their spears.  

Onlookers lined the way, through the city gate and out into the surrounding fields, hurling abuse and waving fists. 

So much hatred for a man who had shown them only love.

As Jesus swayed, fainting, and buckled under the weight of the heavy, wooden crossbar he was carrying, Mary may have tried to reach him— a futile attempt, since the soldiers closed ranks around him. They grabbed a man who was passing and ordered him to carry the crossbar. Mary recognized him: it was Simon, a believer, come to Jerusalem from his Cyrene home as a Passover Pilgrim, no doubt.

The place of crucifixion was called Golgotha, the Place of the Skull, because of the white cliff overlooking the area that resembled a carved-out skull.

There, the soldiers shoved Jesus and the two other condemned men to the ground and nailed them to their crossbars. It would have been a scene like hell come down to earth— their terrible screams and the hollow hammerings of metal on metal, like at a forge,  the women pleading and crying out, the wails and moans of the condemned in the spaces between.

The soldiers hoisted the men with their crossbars onto the permanent uprights there. The hammering began anew: long, square, iron nails through the crossbar to hold them in place, and then through the men’s ankles, to more ear-piercing screams.

Then began the horrific crucifixion dance of the three prisoners: hauling up their weight by the strength of their biceps to grab a breath, and sinking back down to suffocate as muscles gave way and lungs compressed. 

The soldiers, aloof and uncaring, laughed and rolled dice at Jesus’ feet to decide who should have his valuable robe, woven as a single piece. Everything was unfolding just as David’s psalm had foretold:

they cast lots for my clothing,

just as Isaiah had prophesied: He was

numbered among the transgressors.

What of Mary at this moment?

Amid all the hubbub of the agonized prisoners, the laughing Romans, taunting onlookers and grieving women, I imagine her eerily still, observing herself in a detached way as if she weren’t really there at all. This was how I was as my mother left this world: I call it third-person mode.

Yet that wasn’t violent, and this was.

And my mother was not God, while Mary knew that Jesus was.

Perhaps, despite her stillness, the double-edged sword dividing Mary’s soul from her spirit and her joints from her marrow gave her belly cramps, and the only way she could stop from doubling over in agony was to fix her eyes on the awful specter of her son.

Above his head was nailed a notice of his ‘crime’ in Hebrew, Latin and Greek:

‘YESHUA OF NAZARETH, KING OF THE JEWS.’

Members of the Sanhedrin had objected, suggesting: ‘HE CLAIMED TO BE KING OF THE JEWS.’ But Pilate demurred. What he had written, he had written.

Did he know what a shameful death this was for any Jew? Torah is clear that a man who dies by hanging on a tree is cursed.

One of the elders mockingly bowed low before Jesus with an exaggerated flourish. “What is this I see? The Temple, still intact?” No doubt, he indicated the Temple, visible above the nearby city walls. “You didn’t destroy it and build it again in three days, after all?” 

Jesus remained silent, his agonized face and his chest streaked of blood, some dried and caked, some dribbling,.

Isaiah foresaw it all:

He was led like a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before its shearers is silent, so he did not open his mouth.

“Why don’t you come down from the cross and save yourself, Messiah?” they jeered.

“Oy, Messiah, King of Israel, we will believe in you if you come down from the cross now!”

Mary knew he could get down from the cross. He had told a Nazareth mob, bent on murder, to let him go and he had walked straight through them. He could save himself anytime he chose. Did she pray he would choose? Did her whole body stiffen at the thought there was a chink of a chance he might?

Wincing with pain, Jesus hoisted himself as high as the last dregs of his strength would allow, which surely made Mary wince, too. He prayed a breathless prayer for his oppressors. “Father, forgive them. They don’t know what they are doing.” 

Father, he is so good. Please take him quickly. Or, in Your mercy, let him go free. I do not doubt that Mary pleaded with God.  

Then one of the criminals crucified alongside him spouted insults between gasps, in rich language that would make anyone want to cover their ears. “Hey, so-called Messiah? Come on, save yourself and save us, too!” 

The other criminal flanking Jesus rebuked him. “You don’t fear God even now, knowing you’re dying? At least we know our crimes and why. This fellow hasn’t done anything wrong.” He turned his face to Jesus. “Savior, please remember me when you come into your kingdom!”  

Jesus, spoke breathy words of comfort over him. “Amen v’amen, I promise you that today you will be with me in heaven.” 

The man’s face would have cleared as, with the deepest sigh he was able to muster, he thanked him.

Jesus fixed his gaze on his mother. He nodded as she teetered, determined to hold her ground come what may, as if in secret confirmation that they had pulled something off— something planned years before, to the sound of chirping birds under the fig tree in the courtyard of their Nazareth home or sitting on the roof  or walking by the way on a shabbat afternoon.

 His lips were parched and cracked as he formed the words, “Geveret, hinei benach—Lady, this is your son.” He meant his young disciple, John, who had come to stand at Mary’s side, comforting her as she tried to swallow the sobs that shook her body.    

Did she remember that he had called her Geveret at Cana, as his ministry began? That throughout his earthly ministry, he had never once called her Imma?  

Of course, she did.

To John, he said, “This is your mother.”

Perhaps Mary looked around now, to see if his brothers had come. But there was no sign of them. It was a sad state of affairs that Jesus needed to will her into the care of one of his disciples after his death.

His four brothers were still entrenched in their extended sulk.”

Be the first to read my posts. Join Scrollchest today and receive my free teaching: MORE THAN A MOM, The Legacy of some Smart, Strong and Spirit-filled Bible Women.