Simon of Cyrene

‘Hey,
you there,
come here!’
Those words sent a chill
down the spine
of all of us
who heard them.
We all fell silent.
We all backed away;
pretended that we weren’t there.
Not me!
They couldn’t mean
me!
The art of survival
was to be
unnoticed;
unnoticeable,
especially at times like these.
And anyway,
I should not have been
in this place
at this time.
I was only
passing through,
delayed
by the mass of people
watching
this gruesome parade
of men
going to their deaths.
One of the men,
more battered and bruised
than the others
had fallen
just in front of us.
The heavy cross
had thudded
on the ground
and he was too weak
to lift it up.
Even the soldiers,
brutal men that they were,
realised that,
hence the chilling order
to step forward;
to stand apart from the crowd;
to be part of that gruesome procession,
And,
with a sickening feeling,
I knew
they meant me.
I was rooted to the spot.
I couldn’t move.
My legs turned to jelly.
Everything inside me
screamed out,
‘no’.
Then real panic
set in.
What did they want me to do?
Did they want me
just to carry the cross?
I could do it.
I was strong enough
but
what would people think,
seeing me in that procession?
Would I be abused?
Would I be spat upon?
And then what?
When we got there
would they just
let me go
or did they plan for me
to take this man’s place
to the bitter end?
Did they intend
to
crucify
me
in his place?
The soldiers seized me
and
dragged me forward,
a weak
trembling shadow
of the man I had been
minutes before.
As the cross
was lifted on to
my shoulders
the man,
whose cross it was,
looked at me;
looked into my eyes.
No words were spoken
but
the love;
the gratitude;
the understanding
that flowed out
from those eyes
just overwhelmed me.
My strength returned.
My fear left me.
I knew
at that moment
I would do anything
for this man.



© Kathleen Wilks