The people from the town lined the streets cheering, and pushing me back and forth frantically, trying to get a look at this so called "king." As the procession drew closer, I noticed this "king's" royal mode of transportation. A mule. Despite his obvious poverty the people seemed to love and adore this man. The people pressed closer to get a glimpse of this man as his presence grace their curb. He didn't look like any king I had ever knew of in his shabby, torn and tattered robes. After all, the stitches, tears and obvious patchwork didn't lend to his royal splendor he was supposed to radiate with. "Some king," I thought to my self. "He looks more like me."
I walk home later that night and thought about the events which took place earlier that evening in the market place. As I made my way into my house, I casually kicked off my sandals, poured a cup of cold water and reclined at the table in my house. As I slowly sipped, I thought about this man, a normal, but yet revered and, it seemed, almost worshipped. "What does this man have?" I thought to myself as I leaned back on the chair. The chair then evoked an image of this "king" to mind. It, the chair, is simple, yet useful. Carefully crafter by a carpenters frail hand.
The next day I was awakened by my wife to the news of the arrest of this man. "Arrested? What was he arrested for?" I asked my wife in amazement. "What happened?" I asked. My wife then began to tell me about some priest and a trial held in the early morning. She began to tell me how he was arrested on charges of mocked divinity. He, the "king," and a few others where confronted by some guards and one of the "king's" men attacked a guard.
This "king" was evidentially a fraud. How could he be though? He appeared so calm and innocent only yesterday. As I pondered why the banter of some passing sheep being herded along by a shepherd pulled me out of my reverie. The smallest of the lamb caught my eye as I watched it wander aimlessly. Then I saw the shepherd rush over and distraughtly kick the lamb. I winced as he kicked it. And then I wondered what it most feel like to be innocently abused.
A few days later an informal sentencing was held for this man and I went to observe. The town square was clustered with people spewing out obscenities about this fake, this con-artist person. Calmly I pressed my way to the center to watch the verdict be presented. I glanced up at the once praised man and saw a now exhausted frail body with bound hands and now put out as if on display in front of this large crowd. He was bruised form head to toe and had open soars with flies about them, which seemed to have been feasting on his exposed rancid flesh. The presentation of the criminal by the guard in the balcony broke my concentration on the criminal. As soon as the presentation stopped the crowd grew quiet as the judge stepped forward to ask two questions. "Is this man guilty, or is he not?" The crowd simultaneously and condemningly cried, "Guilty." I watched as the newly convicted bound man was mercilessly thrown to the floor of the balcony and beaten by the guards. He didn't even protest the beating. I saw tears begin to form under his eyes as hate pierced through his soul like nails. All I could do was watch as they dragged him to his cell for the night. "Who is this man? Why does every hate him? I couldn't ask my self this enough.
The next day the people lined the streets once more. This time not praise but to hate the man they had sentence to die. I wormed my way to the front of the crowd and then I saw him. I looked away and closed my eyes as my stomach turned inside. The very site of this convict was repulsing. His open soars were now meshed with rocks and dirt as the smell of his urine soaked desecrated the air with a rank smell. Blood seem to continuously flow out of his body as he was prodded toward his death sentence. As he was walking he grew weary of the burdens he was carrying and the weigh heavily on his back. The crowd taunted him and pushed him. They grabbed locks of hair and plucked it out as they swore and spat on him. I then too became filled with this empty hatred and began to hurl insults of my own. Then, some man kinder than I, saw the convict fall to his knees in anguish and he helped him trek up the road to the site of his final breath. As they slowly paced by me on their journey, I looked in to the eyes of this failed king and he into mine. No words exchange, nothing at all. The jeers of the surrounding crowd became silent as a dull roar. I saw the tears streaming down his cheeks. the tears said it all. I tried desperately to make it better. I shouted out to him, "I am sorry...I am sorry for hating you." But that wasn't enough to erase that pain that I couldn't help but notice that we had caused. I followed the bulk of the taunting crowd to the destination of death and could only hope they'd understand. When we reached the final point I closed my eyes and could only listen as the guards pinned him down. They then took his clothes as the spat and urinated on him. I looked into the heavens as if for an answer then the sky faded black.
Time elapsed. He wasn't dead yet. He had been hanging there for about eight hours now. I couldn't bear to look at him. I only stared at the discolored blood-soaked soil below. Some guards were laughing and playing game as this man suffered while a small group mourned. The raw flesh just hung off of him like leave on a tree. those who could look at him without being moved were only fooling themselves. "How could they not care?" He just hung there as the weight of mankind tugged as feet like gravity and slowly ripped him open. The marred visage of a once recognizable man now out lined the blacken sky in crimson red. The ominous thunder rolled off in the distance. The blood slowly trickled out of him as did his life. I saw an old man, visibly shaken, start to cry at the sign of this defeat. As he looked up at the tattered body he noticed the love rejected by man. This old man didn't received defeat over spilt blood. Only hope. the old man looked up into his. The eyes of a man now so ugly and he saw hope. I then too, after observing the two figures from a distance and how they conducted themselves, saw why he died. Love.
The dying man then suddenly began to convulse. He tried to speak. The crowd grew quiet and focused on the mangled bloody man. He began to speak but only sputtered through the blood and the sweat with a clearly slurred speech, due to the countless blows to the head. The near by guards began to laugh at his desperate attempts to communicate. Then the laughter stopped as the words, "It is finished" rolled off his tongue. With that his body fell lifeless and limp as a distant rumble was heard. The rumble amplified into a quake and the people panicked. I ran to a nearby tree for safety and stability. And just as if it never happened the quake stopped and the sun peaked through the blackness as the songs of birds began to be heard. The black sky dissipated into a vivd blue hue. At the signs of this now magnificent beauty and the soft song of the birds I realized that this wasn't a normal mans death. This was a Kings precious death.
Hey this is T (demonkilia@aol.com) from the band Vessel. I wrote this story a while ago for a class assignment back in 96'. God totally did the writing. The main character who remains anonymous through out the story was hand crafted by God. Upon reading this after completion I realized that even the "king" in this story was left to make you wonder who he really was. I guess God wanted the characters in this story to relate to all the public school kids who would later be reading this. The story had no religious imagery, words, or ties so it could not be scrutinized as "religious." The main character was written in such a way that the reader became that person.
After writing this the students who read this and the teacher all wanted to know if this was about Jesus cause it struck them in such a way that that is exactly what it reminded them of.
For the Christians who read this story I wanted to show them a different Christ than the images of the ones even I have been raised with. I wanted an uncensored appreciation of Christ brutal torture for our gain. I didn't want to portray Christ as a savior on a cross with a little blood here and there and that was all. Christ was a mass of trembling flesh. I hope you find peace and understanding in this story as did I, as the CO-writer with the Holy Spirit.
Much Luv from da 330 crew in Youngstown Ohio and xmsdx
