The metal rings on my Roman-issued sandals burned against the back of my ankles as I trudged up Golgotha hill. Dust clung to my sweat-soaked skin. Around me, people shouted—some in hate, some in heartbreak. I was used to crucifixions, but this one felt heavier, like something underneath the sky itself was holding its breath.
I was part of the crucifixion detail—four soldiers sent from the Antonia Fortress to carry out Rome’s justice. We didn’t question orders. Not if you wanted to live another week. So that morning, when they brought us a Nazarene carpenter to crucify, we thought nothing of it. Until we saw his eyes.
He didn’t look scared. Most men begged or cursed or went silent in terror. But this man—Jesus, they called him—he looked like someone heading home.
The crowd was wild as we pulled him through the streets. The priests shouted the loudest—men in flowing robes who claimed to serve God but wanted this man dead more than anyone.
“Blasphemer!” they called him.
“False prophet!”
One of the women in the crowd collapsed, sobbing. He looked at her through bloodied eyes. “Don’t cry for me,” he said. “Cry for what's coming.”
I wanted to ask what he meant. But my job was nails—and I was good at my job.
At the top of the hill, I held the spike in place. His arm was thinner than I expected. Blood from the whipping still dripped down his side. I lifted the hammer. And then… he spoke.
“Father, forgive them.”
The hammer froze in my hand.
What kind of man says that to his executioners?
Still, orders were orders.
The sound of the hammer striking the spike was loud—sickeningly final. I tried not to flinch.
We raised the cross. The sky, which had been bright and cloudless, started darkening. I blinked. Was it really happening? Midday shadows stretched over the city like it was sunset.
The other two men on crosses screamed and cursed. Jesus didn’t. He looked up—even as the blood streamed past his lips—and asked God why He felt so far away.
Even then, His voice was strong.
Around me, people whispered, suddenly unsure.
One of the priests—Caiaphas, the high priest that year—folded his arms. He organized the arrest, though he’d never admit it. He looked pale in the strange half-dark.
“He saved others,” someone in the crowd muttered. “Why doesn’t he save himself?”
That’s when I saw that strange thing, again. Somewhere in all the pain—He wasn’t angry. He was choosing this. For them. For us.
Kneeling near the foot of the cross, I heard him cry one final thing: “It is finished.”
The earth shuddered. I stumbled back, thinking I was fainting. But no—rocks split open. I saw a crack tear through the hilltop. A soldier beside me screamed and fell to the ground.
I looked up at Jesus. His body was limp.
And I felt it—the weight of everything I’d done.
Surely… surely this man was the Son of God.
Later, we found out the temple curtain had ripped in two. Not from the bottom up—but from the top down. As if heaven itself had opened the way.
He died like a lamb led to slaughter. But it wasn’t defeat. Not really.
He never said it was over. He said it was finished.
What changed that day? For me? I no longer saw myself as just a soldier. I saw myself as the reason He came.
Jesus didn’t die because He failed. He died because He loved.
And somehow, even from the shadow of the cross, hope rose.
The metal rings on my Roman-issued sandals burned against the back of my ankles as I trudged up Golgotha hill. Dust clung to my sweat-soaked skin. Around me, people shouted—some in hate, some in heartbreak. I was used to crucifixions, but this one felt heavier, like something underneath the sky itself was holding its breath.
I was part of the crucifixion detail—four soldiers sent from the Antonia Fortress to carry out Rome’s justice. We didn’t question orders. Not if you wanted to live another week. So that morning, when they brought us a Nazarene carpenter to crucify, we thought nothing of it. Until we saw his eyes.
He didn’t look scared. Most men begged or cursed or went silent in terror. But this man—Jesus, they called him—he looked like someone heading home.
The crowd was wild as we pulled him through the streets. The priests shouted the loudest—men in flowing robes who claimed to serve God but wanted this man dead more than anyone.
“Blasphemer!” they called him.
“False prophet!”
One of the women in the crowd collapsed, sobbing. He looked at her through bloodied eyes. “Don’t cry for me,” he said. “Cry for what's coming.”
I wanted to ask what he meant. But my job was nails—and I was good at my job.
At the top of the hill, I held the spike in place. His arm was thinner than I expected. Blood from the whipping still dripped down his side. I lifted the hammer. And then… he spoke.
“Father, forgive them.”
The hammer froze in my hand.
What kind of man says that to his executioners?
Still, orders were orders.
The sound of the hammer striking the spike was loud—sickeningly final. I tried not to flinch.
We raised the cross. The sky, which had been bright and cloudless, started darkening. I blinked. Was it really happening? Midday shadows stretched over the city like it was sunset.
The other two men on crosses screamed and cursed. Jesus didn’t. He looked up—even as the blood streamed past his lips—and asked God why He felt so far away.
Even then, His voice was strong.
Around me, people whispered, suddenly unsure.
One of the priests—Caiaphas, the high priest that year—folded his arms. He organized the arrest, though he’d never admit it. He looked pale in the strange half-dark.
“He saved others,” someone in the crowd muttered. “Why doesn’t he save himself?”
That’s when I saw that strange thing, again. Somewhere in all the pain—He wasn’t angry. He was choosing this. For them. For us.
Kneeling near the foot of the cross, I heard him cry one final thing: “It is finished.”
The earth shuddered. I stumbled back, thinking I was fainting. But no—rocks split open. I saw a crack tear through the hilltop. A soldier beside me screamed and fell to the ground.
I looked up at Jesus. His body was limp.
And I felt it—the weight of everything I’d done.
Surely… surely this man was the Son of God.
Later, we found out the temple curtain had ripped in two. Not from the bottom up—but from the top down. As if heaven itself had opened the way.
He died like a lamb led to slaughter. But it wasn’t defeat. Not really.
He never said it was over. He said it was finished.
What changed that day? For me? I no longer saw myself as just a soldier. I saw myself as the reason He came.
Jesus didn’t die because He failed. He died because He loved.
And somehow, even from the shadow of the cross, hope rose.
