Many others had heard the news by now, and Jonathan joined the crowd that surged along the road that led to the killing ground outside the city to see if it were really true. There Jonathan finally saw him on the center cross, dying. Jesus! He looked like Jonathan remembered him, yet drained, crushed, as it were, by the weight of the world. A crown of thorns had been pressed into his scalp, and his hands and feet had been spiked to the huge cross that stood naked against the foreboding darkness.
Jonathan pushed closer. Part of him wanted to run and hide. But part of him had to see, had to see for himself. Jonathan edged his way through the press of mourners until he came to the perimeter set up by the soldiers.
Jonathan stood transfixed, tears running down his cheeks. And then he heard Jesus declare in a weak voice, yet clearly, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."
"What are they doing?" Jonathan wanted to shout. "What are they doing to this holy and righteous man?"
Jonathan's eyes followed another droplet of blood as it lingered for a moment on the wooden crossbeam, and then fell onto the rocks below the cross.
Perhaps of all the onlookers that day, Jonathan alone remembered and began to understand.
"Behold," Jonathan said out loud, but quietly so that no one could hear unless listening intently. "Behold," said Jonathan, weeping silently, now dropping to his knees.
"Behold, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world."
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