now I remembered His saying, and I knew that He who was pacing the olive grove was heaven made man; and I bethought me that the womb of the earth is not a beginning nor an end, but rather a chariot, a pause; and a moment of wonder and surprise; and hell I saw also, in the valley called Jahannam, which lay between Him and the Holy City.
And as He stood there and I lay wrapped in my garment, I heard His voice speaking. But He was not speaking to us. Thrice I heard Him pronounce the word Father. And that was all I heard.
After a while His arms dropped down, and He stood still like a cypress tree between my eyes and the sky.
At last He came over among us again, and He said to us: “Wake and rise. My hour has come. The world is already upon us, armed for battle.”
And then He said: “A moment ago I heard the voice of my Father. If I see you not again, remember that the conqueror shall not have peace until he is conquered.”
And when we had risen and come close to Him, His face was like the starry heaven above the desert.
Then He kissed each one of us upon the cheek. And when His lips touched my cheek, they were hot, like the hand of a child in fever.
Suddenly we heard a great noise in the distance, as of numbers, and when it came near it was a company of men approaching with lanterns and slaves. And they came in haste.
As they reached the hedge of the grove Jesus left us and went forth and met them. And Judas of Iscariot was leading them.
There were Roman soldiers with swords and spears, and men of Jerusalem with clubs and pickaxes.
And Judas came up to Jesus and kissed Him. And then he said to the armed men: “This is the Man.”
And Jesus said to Judas: “Judas, you were patient with me. This could have been yesterday.”
Then He turned to the armed men and said: “Take me now. But see that your cage is large enough for these wings.”
Then they fell upon Him and held Him, and they were all shouting.
But we in our fear ran away and sought to escape. I ran alone through the olive groves, nor had I power to be mindful, nor did any voice speak in me except my fear.
Through the two or three hours that remained of that night I was fleeing and hiding, and at dawn I found myself in a village near Jericho.
Why had I left Him? I do not know. But to my sorrow I did leave Him. I was a coward and I fled from the face of His enemies.
Then I was sick and ashamed at heart, and I returned to Jerusalem, but He was a prisoner, and no friend could have speech with Him.
He was crucified, and His blood has made new clay of the earth.
And I am living still; I am living upon the honeycomb of His sweet life.
Simon of Cyrene
I was on my way to the fields when I saw Him carrying His cross; and multitudes were following Him.
Then I too walked beside Him.
His burden stopped Him many a time, for His body was exhausted.
Then a Roman soldier approached me, saying: “Come, you are strong and firm built; carry the cross of this man.”
When I heard these words my heart swelled within me and I was grateful.
And I carried His cross.
It was heavy, for it was made of poplar soaked through with the rains of winter.
And Jesus looked at me. And the sweat of His forehead was running down upon His beard.
Again He looked at me and He said: “Do you too drink this cup? You shall indeed sip its rim with me to the end of time.”
So saying He placed His hand upon my free shoulder. And we walked together towards the Hill of the Skull.
But now I felt not the weight of the cross. I felt only His hand. And it was like the wing of a bird upon my shoulder.
Then we reached the hill top, and there they were to crucify Him.
And then I felt the weight of the tree.
He uttered no word when they drove the nails into His hands and feet, nor made He any sound.
And His limbs did not quiver under the hammer.
It seemed as if His hands and feet had died and would only live again when bathed in blood. Yet it seemed also as if He sought the nails as the prince would seek the sceptre; and that He craved to be raised to the heights.
And my heart did not think to pity Him, for I was too filled to wonder.
Now, the man whose cross I carried has become my cross.
Should they say to me again, “Carry the cross of this man,” I would carry it till my road ended at the grave.
But I would beg Him to place His hand upon my shoulder.
This happened many years ago; and still whenever I follow the furrow in the field, and in that drowsy moment before sleep, I think always of that Belovèd Man.
And I feel His wingèd hand, here, on my left shoulder.
Cyborea the Mother of Judas
My son was a good man and upright. He was tender and kind to me, and he loved his kin and his countrymen. And he hated our enemies, the cursèd Romans, who wear purple cloth though they spin no thread nor sit at any loom; and who reap and gather where they have not ploughed nor sowed the seed.
My son was but seventeen when he was caught shooting arrows at the Roman legion passing through our vineyard.
Even at that age he would speak to the other youths of the glory of Israel, and he would utter many strange things that I did not understand.
He was my son, my only son.
He drank life
