The Road to Golgotha

The night was heavy with silence, broken only by the soft rustle of leaves and the distant bleating of sheep. In the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus knelt beneath an ancient olive tree, his fingers digging into the soil. “Father,” he whispered, eyes closed, the weight of the world pressing against his chest. “If it be possible, let this cup pass from me. Yet not as I will, but as You will.” Nearby, Peter, James, and John struggled to keep their eyes open. Despite the warning, “Watch and pray,” sleep crept over them. There was a sadness in Jesus’s gaze when he returned and found them dozing. It was not disappointment,  it was love tinged with sorrow.

Suddenly, the hush was shattered by the trample of feet and the flare of torches. A crowd of soldiers and temple guards stormed into the garden, led by Judas. "Rabbi," Judas said, stepping forward, his eyes shadowed. He kissed Jesus on the cheek.

Jesus looked at him not with anger, but with heartbreaking clarity. 

“Friend, do what you came to do.” The guards surged forward. Peter leapt to his feet and drew his sword, slashing at the nearest soldier and cutting off his ear. “Enough!” Jesus cried, touching the man’s head. Even in the face of betrayal, his hands brought healing. The ear was made whole. The disciples scattered into the dark. Jesus was bound and dragged toward the high priest’s house.

Morning bled into the sky as Jesus stood before Pontius Pilate, the Roman governor. The courtyard was packed with religious leaders and an angry crowd. Pilate studied the bruised, bleeding man before him. 

“You are the King of the Jews?” Jesus replied, “My kingdom is not of this world. If it were, my servants would fight to prevent my arrest.”

Pilate rubbed his temple. This wasn’t the man he had expected. Not a revolutionary. Not a madman. Just... peaceful. Too peaceful.

"I find no basis for a charge against him," Pilate said. But the crowd roared louder. “Crucify him!” To appease them, Pilate had Jesus flogged. The Roman soldiers beat him with whips tipped in bone and metal, tearing his back open. They mocked him, draped a purple robe over his shoulders, and pressed a crown of thorns into his brow. Blood ran down his face. 

“Hail, King of the Jews!” they jeered.

Pilate brought him out again. “Behold the man!” But the crowd would not be satisfied with blood alone, they wanted death. When Pilate saw that he could not prevail, he took a bowl and washed his hands before the multitude. “I am innocent of this man’s blood,” he said. “See to it yourselves.” But water cannot cleanse a guilty conscience.

The sun climbed higher as Jesus, exhausted and barely able to stand, was forced to carry his cross through the narrow streets. Each step was agony. Blood dripped onto the cobblestones. Women wept along the roadside.

Mary followed silently, her heart breaking with each faltering step her son took. A soldier grabbed a dark-skinned man from the crowd. 

“You! Help him.” The man, Simon of Cyrene, hesitated. He was just a traveler. Just a man in the wrong place. But when he looked into Jesus’s eyes, he felt something stir inside, a sorrow, and a strange, quiet strength.

Together, they moved forward toward the hill.

At Golgotha, the Place of the Skull, Jesus was laid on the cross. Nails were driven through his wrists and feet. The sound echoed like thunder. The sky darkened unnaturally, though it was only midday. He was lifted between two thieves. One cursed him. The other, struggling to breathe, turned his head.

“Jesus,” he gasped, “remember me when you come into your kingdom.”

Jesus replied, “Today you will be with me in Paradise.” Below, Mary stood with John. Jesus looked down at her through pain-blurred eyes.

“Woman, behold your son,” he said, then to John, “Behold your mother.” Even in death, he thought of others.

A great silence fell over the land as the final hour approached. Then, in a voice that carried through the heavens, Jesus cried out: “My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?” The earth trembled. Rocks split. The veil in the temple tore from top to bottom. A centurion who had been watching from the foot of the cross fell to his knees. “Surely,” he whispered, “this man was the Son of God.” At last, Jesus breathed his final words: “It is finished.”

He bowed his head. The storm broke.

The body was taken down and placed in a new tomb. A great stone sealed the entrance, and Roman guards stood watch. But on the third day, the earth quaked again.

The stone was rolled away. The tomb was empty. Grave clothes lay folded where he had been laid. He was not there. He had risen. The whispers became a flame that could not be extinguished. In the hearts of those who had betrayed, denied, followed, and mourned—hope was reborn. Death had lost its sting. And the road to Golgotha, once a path of sorrow, became a symbol of victory.

©Brian Makara 2025.

Credit: Matthew, Luke, Mark and John from the Bible.