Please read Jasmine’s fantastic writing from the perspective of a Roman soldier at the crucifixion of Jesus.
The Easter Story by Jasmine, Y6MJ
This was it. The moment of satisfaction. It was going to happen. We marched, purposefully, through the dry grounds of the gardens of Gethsemane. Heavily clothed in armour and battle weapons, I was surprised we didn’t make any more sounds. Waiting nervously, in the shade of the blossoming grove trees our hearts thudded in one; preparing for the accusation of a lifetime. Judas whispered to us, his voice hoarse. “This is the time. I shall go greet him with a kiss so you recognise who he is. Afterwards, you must give me the money and I shall never see you again.” He did his deed then … we charged.
Adrenalin fizzed through me as I ran towards the group, spears raised. Shouts of anger mingled heavily with screeches of fear. Simon-Peter (one of Jesus’ most faithful disciples) attacked a fellow Roman and blood poured from his cut. Instantly, Jesus cried out, “STOP!” He calmly walked towards the injured man. Everything had stopped. Everyone was silent. I took a step towards Jesus. Surely, if we were to arrest him we should not listen to him? However, all my comrades stood-stock-still. With one touch, Jesus healed the man.
All of a sudden, we were inches from Jesus’ trembling body. We wrapped him in a harsh rope and tugged it tightly. Now he was in our hands. He was ours! We dragged him all across the town. First to a Roman leader, then to Herod and next to Pontius Pilate. At the beginning, the crowd seemed slightly hesitant to do what the ‘Son of God’ deserved. To be crucified. Jesus stood limply, exhausted from our constant prodding and poking. The crowds cheered and jeered at Jesus: now with a blood-red robe hung upon his neck and a crown of thorns forcing their way into his already-bleeding head.
“Crucify, crucify, CRUFICY!” came the ascending chant from the crowd. I let a small, sly grin creep onto my face. This was right.
We were at the foot of the hill, where two men were already nailed to crosses. I felt a satisfied joy rise up in me. I had accomplished my job. Every time, the ‘saviour’ stumbled over rocks or fell/tripped over his robes, we forcefully pushed him up with our swords and spears. His heavy, wooden cross cut deeply into his neck as he continuously staggered forwards. With extreme exaggeration, I had the pleasure of savagely nailing his body to the cross. His eyes followed my every movement. Pitiful and sad. I began to doubt myself. Were my accusations unfound? Guilt curdled through me; however I stepped away and watched the pain on his face rise upwards.
That’s when the storm broke out: strong winds, lightening and dark clouds. Jesus shouted out, “Father! Forgive them!” and the storm died down. Amongst the confused shouts of my fellow friends I whispered partly to myself and partly to him, “This man was a Son of God.”