The Quest of a Stranger

His heavy breathing could hardly be heard above the tumultuous crowd. The upward climb was a difficult one; harder than any had yet endured. Was there a purpose to all this madness? A goal to be reached? Truth would be known, sooner or later.

In the midst of the path the stranger traveled, in spite of the noise all around, there was quiet. Even though hatred surrounded him as a fog, love was present as oxygen which gives life. Riots were all around, yet there was peace.

Is it true that a trail of innocent blood was left behind? Does evil finally triumph over good?

But what is this? The stranger has fallen. His knees are bruised and his blood is flowing again. Is there no one here to help an innocent stranger? Whips!! The punishment for falling is severe. Thank goodness I'm not in his place.

Up again, he moves slowly along. Pushed and kicked, spat upon and whipped, he struggles silently upward as the crowd mocks and screams. How is it cruelty seems to add insult to injury? Is it possible for a beard to be a souvenir? Still the man refuses to curse any. Has the world gone mad?

The hill traveled by the stranger seemed never ending, yet the end is in sight. The Legionnaires awaiting his arrival appeared anxious and angry at the delay. Surely his quest will be fulfilled at the top of this tortuous hill.

As he arrived at the apex, the Legionnaires ripped the robe off his torn back. They lean over him as they drive the spikes through his body, making him one with the wood. Why do they treat him with such contempt? Not even one word of protest did he speak.

As he stood suspended over all, darkness covered the land. Yet a voice could be heard, words coming from the mouth of the stranger, “...Forgive them...”.