On the day that I was crucified,
throngs of people crowded into Jerusalem.
The air was ripe with excitement
as word of my capture spread.
What would happen in Jerusalem today?
The death of a false prophet?
Or would God rescue his Chosen One
in a blaze of glory?

People were fascinated by me –
one day,
being carried joyfully on men’s shoulders
and a few days later
being forced to carry my own cross.

Before the crucifixion
came the mockery,
first of all, at the high priest’s house
and then at Herod’s palace.
Men almost fought,
so keen were they
to get the chance
to impress their friends
by making fun of me.

And yet, amid all of the jeering
I had two unlikely advocates
who had the courage
to speak up for me.

The first was Pilate,
a leader among the oppressors
of my people,
a man with a strong sense of justice
who argued my case persuasively
before crowds of Jews.
But faced with throngs of thousands,
all baying for my blood,
and threatening to riot
his courage crumbled
and eventually Pilate gave the order
for my execution.

My other advocate
was a thief,
himself in the throes of the agony
of crucifixion,
a man of remarkable insight
who looked upon my stripped,
raw, battered body
and saw me
for who I really am.

You see,
in the eyes of Pilate
I was an unfortunate victim
but in the eyes of the thief,
I was a King!

© Claire Murray