The spring sun of Jerusalem beat hard on his bleeding back, piercing the scabs that would never get the chance to become scars and drying the blood which held such power.

He forcibly drug his feet through the sharp gravel of the street. They had stopped bleeding several miles back along the road, the cuts so filled with dirt and dried blood. Weariness and exhaustion swept over him in waves now, his mind floating away from him. He thought of the beach of his youth.

He and his friends, splashing, swimming, enjoying the cool water. Watching the ships with their massive wooden hulls breaking through the waves. Waves like those sweeping over his consciousness now. He thought of these things despite his ever passing will to go on. There was a reason, he told himself, a reason for all of this.

He couldn't see the faces of the scoffers lined up along the city streets. The sun was blinding at this time of day, reflecting off the trampled, tan sand and stone of the ground. Through the dry blood that filled his ears, he heard muffled cries and felt the blunt thud of rocks and rotten vegetables against his already dry, cracked and numbing skin.

The ground felt like a lake of fire. Each step pushed boiling air through his lungs, and out his cracked, bloodied lips.

With every step he felt the course, splintering wood dig into his already thrashed back. The massive crossed beams which weighed so heavy on him remained ever-present in his mind. Everything else he could push aside, or put away, but not this wood. As he trudged along the seemingly endless path towards his foretold demise, a thought struck him.

What a fine table he could have made from the beams on his back.

He could feel it was fine wood. Even as the splinters pierced his skin, and the sun burned his skin he imagined standing in the shade of his tall fig tree back in Nazareth. The beam would lay across his worktable, while he carefully sanded down it's surface. He always tried to bring out the woods natural beauty, rather than make it appear a certain way.

When he was finished, he would run his calloused hands over soft finish. Once he had the boards in just the right shapes, he would bring them together, snug and sturdy. Then place them atop the frame. After it was assembled, he would stain it, and give it a dark, elegant look. What a fine table indeed. Fit for a king.

It wouldn't have to be made a table. Something simpler perhaps. A set of cups and plates for his mother. She was always in need of a good set of plates.

"Keep moving!" interrupted a voice, and he was back on the road, struggling and stumbling. He heard the crack of the whip before he felt the sting of it's tip. So much of him was in pain it was hard to tell what was what.

But soon, he could distinguish the weight of the beam, and he returned to his thoughts. Perhaps he could have made a new bed for his brother, or a basinet for the newborn child down the road.

If nothing else, a crutch for the lame, a staff for the blind to find his way. A sturdy staff was always of good use. It could be just about anything rather than what it was, a mere device of death.

And that brought him back to the road and his purpose. This wooden cross, this crude device, rough and raw as it was, wood bring to the people something they needed most.

Oh, but what a fine chest he could have made...

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