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Pilate gives up his fight against Chief Priests dressed in 19th century suits. Who can understand them? The scourged Jesus picks up his cross to the sound of the Muezzin from Temple Mound. He staggers up the Via Dolorosa under an arch he doesn’t remember seeing before. He hears his mother, dead for nearly two thousand years, shouting, “This is my beloved son.” In his confusion, he stumbles back through time. A Roman soldier hoiks from the crowd some poor sucker called Simon. Not the one aka Peter, who’s not to be seen. This guy carries the cross the rest of the way. That nice lady from St Veronica’s mops Jesus’ brow. They pass the souvenir shops selling printed Turin shrouds while you wait. Jesus trips over the manhole made for him before all time. Some women collecting for the local hospice smile reassuringly. He looks up to Golgotha. They walk on, past Orthodox and Catholic guardians exchanging holy-water-pistol fire. Simon lays down his cross. UN soldiers emerge from their bunker to nail Jesus to it.
He refuses mingled wine and gall, and exchanges words with the two blokes alongside having a bad Easter. In literally excruciating pain, he mutters something about being forsaken by his father. It is finished. It is accomplished. It’s over. He won’t be seeing rainbows any more. He’s thirsty and takes the wine.
A few hundred yards away there’s an explosion. The veil of the temple is rent in twain. Into thy hands, I commend my spirit.