This is what they’ll do to you.
The nails held him upright, the weight of his body sagging against the wood. A bead of sweat slid from his temple, caught in the thorns, and mingled with the blood. His chest rose and fell.
The world doesn’t crucify monsters. It crucifies the good. The pure. The ones who carry too much light. The honest. The sincere. The innocent.
Around him, the crowd pressed in, eager. Some spat. Some wept. Some turned away. He looked at them one by one, holding them in his gaze.
In his eyes were countless people from the future, all of whom shared his pain. Martyrs yet to live, dreamers who dared to speak of peace, healers who mended wounds at no benefit to themselves. People who were misunderstood, just as he was. They would be wounded, just as he’d been.
The wood creaked under his weight. Someone in the crowd mocked him. A sigh passed from his lips. Still, he forgave. Still, he loved.
This cross was not the end — it was the beginning of a pattern. His people would walk it again and again, each bearing in their own lives the echo of his wounds. They would face ridicule, suspicion, and exile. They’d be cursed, even though they forgave. Hated, though they loved. Called mad, heretical, extremist. But still, they would proclaim the truth.
It took bravery. Courage. But those who endured would find a crown no thief could steal. A joy no grief could touch. The reward would be greater than the pain, mightier than the nails that held him, superior to anything that anyone could ever promise.
In his eyes was the truth: that love doesn’t die.
