e had run away the night before when the guards took Jesus into custody. Peter was the only brave one, following the chaos from a distance. But even he gave in; when those in the courtyard asked him about Jesus, he denied knowing Him three times, just as Jesus had said he would. Mark felt deep sadness for Peter; he also felt shame for himself. He had left Jesus when things got difficult. But amidst the heaviness of his heart, he made a vow—to tell this story, the remarkable story of a savior, for others to read for generations to come. To write it well, he knew he had to witness the events as they unfolded.
The next morning, full of determination, Mark woke up early and headed to the High Priest’s house, trying to blend in with the crowd filled with worried whispers. He loved Jesus and wanted to make sure He was safe. When he arrived at Caiaphas’s house, he heard alarming news from the gathered people: Caiaphas had already declared Jesus guilty of blasphemy and was sending Him to Pilate for sentencing. Anxiety crept into Mark’s throat as he quietly followed the group to Pilate’s palace.
Mark’s heart raced as he listened to the horrors Jesus had faced from the High Priest’s guards, who had beaten Him the night before, mocking Him while blindfolded and spitting on Him. The sound of their laughter echoed in his mind as they brought Jesus before Pilate that dark Friday morning.
Hiding among the people, Mark strained to hear the exchange between Jesus and Pilate, struggling to discern the words spoken amidst the uproar. But there was something undeniably royal about how Jesus stood before the Roman governor, exuding a quiet, humble dignity that stirred something deep within Mark. He heard Pilate’s question—”Are you the King of the Jews?”—and felt a desperate hope flicker in him, wishing that Jesus would declare otherwise. He longed for more time with Jesus, yearning to learn about the Father to witness more miraculous signs; three years felt far too short. They had so much more to discuss! Yet deep within, Mark recognised the unchanging nature of Jesus. The One who would never lie, who would embrace truth even if it meant facing death head-on.
Mark held his breath as he heard Jesus respond, “Yes, it is as you say.” Panic gripped him, and he squeezed his eyes shut, unable to bear what might come next. Fury bubbled up inside him when he heard the chief priests hurl accusations at Jesus, and Pilate’s voice rang out again, “Aren’t you going to answer? Look at all these charges against you!” But Jesus remained hauntingly silent, and that silence only fueled Mark’s frustration. Why wouldn’t He defend Himself? Then, in a flash, Mark recalled Jesus’s prayer from the night before: “Not my will, Lord, but Your will be done.” In that instant, Mark understood that there was a deep truth unfolding that transcended the chaos surrounding them, even if he struggled to grasp its full meaning.
Suddenly, a commotion drew Mark’s attention as Barabbas was brought forth. A wave of disbelief swept over him. How could this criminal, a man stained with the blood of many from his insurrection, be standing here? He was a rebel unworthy of freedom. As the crowd swirled with excitement, Pilate found himself caught in a moral dilemma, acutely aware of the Jewish tradition that allowed for the release of a prisoner on holy days. He stood there, conflicted, presenting two stark figures to the restless throng: Jesus, embodying innocent righteousness—nothing within Him deserving of condemnation—and Barabbas, the embodiment of hardened guilt.
Then, in a staggering turn of events, the crowd shouted in unison, their choice is clear: they demanded Barabbas be set free. Mark stared in shocked disbelief, his heart racing with confusion and despair. What else was going to happen today? He watched as Pilate washed his hands in a basin of water, a symbol of his own helplessness, and then saw Jesus, bound and beaten, being dragged away to suffer further torment. Tears streamed down Mark’s face, a cascade of anguish as he witnessed the unfolding horror, feeling utterly powerless in the face of such injustice.
The Roman soldiers seized Jesus, stripping him bare and binding his hands above his head. A heavy whip lashed against his skin, tearing into flesh and drawing forth blood. The initial cuts were merely surface wounds, but they quickly deepened, transforming his body into a horrific canvas of ripped, bleeding flesh. Those who endured such brutal floggings rarely survived; the agony was unfathomable.
As he writhed in pain, a crown of sharp thorns was pressed painfully into his scalp, causing blood to flow freely. The soldiers relished in their cruelty, mocking him as they struck his head with a staff, forcing the thorns deeper while spitting in disdain.
The torment intensified as they callously ripped away the robe that clung to his wounded back, tearing off the clots of congealed blood, igniting fresh waves of pain. Once again dressed in his own garments, Jesus faced the daunting task of carrying the heavy wooden cross to Golgotha. It weighed thirty to forty pounds, pressing painfully against his already ravaged shoulders, the rough wood aggravating his torn skin. Weak and exhausted from the merciless flogging, he struggled to move, nearly collapsing under the weight.
In a heavy silence, Simon is instructed to lay the cross down at the top of Golgotha. Jesus is abruptly thrown back, his shoulders sinking into the gritty wood. A soldier methodically positions a heavy iron nail on his wrist, securing him to the cross. Without pause, the soldier moves to the other side, repeating the process, leaving just enough slack for a flicker of movement. As the cross is lifted, another nail drives through the arches of Jesus’s feet, pinning him, his knees slightly bent, transformed into the atonement for mankind.
As Jesus’s body begins to sag under the unbearable weight, he feels a surge of searing pain in his wrists, spreading like wildfire through his arms. Each desperate attempt to lift himself for a breath pulls the nails deeper into his feet, amplifying his torment. Fatigue soon sets in; muscle cramps seize him, turning every inhale into a gruelling effort as fluid collects in his lungs. The momentary relief from each upward struggle is fleeting.
Hours stretch into an eternity, filled with unrelenting anguish that gnaws at him. His lacerated back grates against the rough timber, each movement intensifying the sharp agony, while a suffocating pressure builds in his chest as the fluids close in. As he nears the brink, he senses the chill of death creeping closer. Yet even amid the profound despair, a flicker of purpose remains—his mission of atonement drawing to a close.
In this somber moment, Mark stands transfixed, his heart heavy with a profound sense of awe for the man known as Jesus. An overwhelming realization washes over him: he is utterly unworthy of this monumental sacrifice. A deep humility envelops him, far beyond anything he ever imagined possible, and all that fills his heart is an indescribable love for the man upon the cross. His face, streaked with tears, feels cleansed yet exhausted; he believes he has no more tears left to shed. But just then, a chilling sound pierces the air—Jesus cries out, “Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?!” Mark’s heart lurches as he recognizes the poignant words: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” In that moment, he understands that Jesus has reached the end of His journey, ready to surrender. Overcome with awe, Mark drops to his knees, honoring the man who selflessly gave His life for the sake of all humanity.
He looked around and realized he had fallen to his knees. His eyes were filmed over with a curtain of unshed tears, and he felt the warmth of those tears streaming down his cheeks, refusing to stop. Before him, his Messiah hung—beaten and broken—like the shattered shards of a clay jar that had been violently smashed against the floor, suspended on a cross crafted by human hands. How many hands had contributed to the destruction of his teacher’s body? Even more haunting was the question of how many minds had been twisted by evil to allow such a horrific act to occur. Too many questions raced through his mind as he remained on his knees, staring at his beloved Jesus, cruelly affixed to that cross.
Stunned disbelief washed over him. Mark had always thought Jesus would be the one to save them from their Roman oppressors. Didn’t the prophecies promise that He would restore Israel and usher in blessings for the whole world? Some had imagined Him as a warrior-king who would rise against the Romans and establish an independent Jewish kingdom. How could any of that be possible now, when He, the one meant to be the Savior of the world, hung lifeless on a cross? Dead. His body was completely limp, and after the soldier’s spear pierced His side, there was no question left—no pulse remained, and no life blood flowed through His veins. The weight of despair pressed down on Mark’s heart, filling him with an overwhelming sense of loss.
The darkness had descended, shrouding the land in a thick veil, yet as it began to lift ever so slightly, the deep darkness that enveloped Mark’s heart would remain an unforgettable shadow. The earth had trembled beneath him, and his mind drifted to the ancient tale of Moses on Mount Sinai. When the mountain had violently shaken in response to the divine presence as God gave the law to His people. Was this earthquake at Golgotha a sign that the weight of the law had finally been fulfilled in Jesus?
He recalled the whispers of those who had witnessed the miraculous event—the tearing of the temple curtain, a dramatic rip from top to bottom. Did this signify that humanity was granted access to the Holy of Holies, all because of the sacrifice Jesus had endured today? A torrent of thoughts surged through Mark’s mind, fierce and unrelenting, like a mighty rushing wind tearing across a desolate landscape.
Yet, beneath the surface of his racing thoughts, he sensed a shift. An awareness that something momentous was occurring on another plane, perhaps within a parallel universe, where unseen forces were aligning. It was elusive, just out of reach, leaving him with a strange sensation that his mind was not yet equipped to grasp fully. The chaos unfolding before his eyes was devastating; each impact resonated within him, leaving his body and mind in a desperate struggle to comprehend the magnitude of the events around him.
He heard hushed whispers fluttering through the air. Joseph of Arimathea, a member of the Sanhedrin, was seeking Nicodemus. Of all the times to be scheming, this was certainly not the right moment for any secret dealings. Mark still remembers Nicodemus being profoundly moved by the teachings of Jesus. Nico found himself torn; he was frightened at the thought of breaking away from the rigid Pharisaical order to which he belonged. Yet Mark could sense that Jesus’s words had stirred something deep within Nicodemus’s heart. He vividly recalled their brief encounter in the marketplace, where for just a heartbeat, he had almost smiled at the flicker of excitement in Nicodemus’s eyes as he spoke of what Jesus had revealed to him. Despite his age, the man’s eyes radiated a youthful spark, brimming with hope and possibility.
As evening descended, a heavy silence enveloped the scene. Mark found it nearly impossible to tear himself away from the spot where he stood before the cross, before Jesus. Gradually, he rose to his feet, barely aware of the aching muscles in his body, for the agony that haunted him was not his own. It was the palpable sorrow etched on the faces of Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, Joses, Salome, and a multitude of other women who had lovingly followed Jesus and attended to his needs throughout the past three years. They stood together like shattered glass, their spirits broken as they gazed in disbelief at the sight before them.
Finally, as the dim light of dusk deepened around them, the women began to turn away from the man who had forever transformed their lives. Their steps were slow and heavy, each one laden with reluctance, for they were unwilling to leave him there, abandoned. How could they possibly walk away? He had always been their beacon of love. They adored him with every fiber of their hearts. Reluctantly, they took their leave, leaving behind the one who had given them hope and light in the darkness.
Mark was stirred when he heard the soft padding of a young boy’s feet come up behind him. The boy, with his big, brown, inquisitive eyes and olive-toned skin, had spotted movement in Pilate’s court. Mark often relied on little spies like him, employing their keen senses to uncover the happenings around him, for as a reporter, he believed it was vital to witness events firsthand. The boy had run to come and get Mark while everyone outside was walking home after the day’s events.
Mark followed the boy, his heart racing with anticipation, and rushed after the boy named Samuel. Together, they navigated the quiet streets, shrouded in shadows, before arriving at Pilate’s court. They found a concealed spot near the gate, ensuring they would not be seen as Mark strained to hear the whispers of the court. The stone surfaces of Pilate’s court, smooth and timeless, acted as amplifiers, carrying the voices of those present to Mark’s eager ears. From his hidden corner behind a pillar, he caught sight of Nicodemus standing next to a figure who appeared to be none other than Joseph of Arimathea. A wave of curiosity washed over him—what brought Joseph here?
As he listened intently, a sense of urgency thrummed in the air. Mark learned that Joseph was seeking permission to take Jesus’s body down from the cross. He wanted to ensure that Jesus received a proper burial before the onset of the Sabbath. At that moment, Mark felt his initial anger dissolve like a shawl slipping from his shoulders. Joseph was not just a wealthy member of the Sanhedrin; he was a secret follower of Christ, risking his own standing for the sake of Jesus! The gravity of Joseph’s actions surged through Mark, a rich man willing to defy the very council that could cast him out for such a bold gesture.
Pilate, taken aback, learned that Jesus had died sooner than expected. Typically, it took a criminal four days to succumb to their injuries unless the guards intervened. Yet, the centurion’s report confirmed that Jesus had perished within six hours of being crucified. With a reluctant nod, Pilate granted Joseph the authority to take Jesus and arrange for His burial. Mark’s heart swelled as he witnessed the unlikely collaboration of Nicodemus, a Pharisee, and Joseph, a member of the Sanhedrin, working together in reverence for a life cut short. They knew the truth! They recognized Jesus as the Son of God!
Following them at a respectful distance, Mark observed that Joseph had purchased the linen cloth necessary for wrapping Jesus’s body from a vendor in the market. People were busily completing their work and preparing provisions for the Sabbath, ensuring they could fully rest and observe its sanctity. It struck Mark as incredibly poignant that as the world celebrated Preparation Day, Jesus’s body would be prepared for burial, destined to find rest in the quiet embrace of the tomb.
He watched in awe as they gently took down Jesus’s lifeless form, wrapping it with great care in the fine linen Joseph had purchased. With tenderness, they placed Jesus in Joseph’s own tomb, a resting place he had painstakingly carved from solid rock. With a heavy heart, Joseph rolled a massive stone across the entrance, sealing the tomb as they stepped away.
Meanwhile, Mark had sent little Samuel to summon the women—Mary and Mary Magdalene—who approached with heavy hearts. They sat silently, facing the newly sealed tomb, their spirits burdened with sorrow. Though no more mourning cries escaped their lips, yet their eyes overflowed with tears that did not seem to stop, a testament to their grief as they watched Jesus laid to rest.
Written by Izelle Hickey