Behold the Lamb

By Harry Watts

It was the morning of Passover in Jerusalem, and our family had traveled all the way from Nazareth to celebrate. The feast was a time of tradition and remembrance, but today, something was wrong. Our lamb—our spotless Passover lamb, which we had brought to sacrifice—had slipped free from its tether and disappeared.

My father, worried and frustrated, dispatched me to find it. I wandered among the camps outside the city walls where travelers like us had gathered, but no one had seen the lost lamb. Reluctantly, I made my way into the Holy City, hoping to find it before the sacrifice.

Inside the gates, I was swept up in a throng of pilgrims who, like us, had made the long journey to Jerusalem. The streets were filled with noise and movement, as everyone prepared for the festival. I threaded through the crowds, searching anxiously, and eventually found myself at the Temple.

I entered the outer court—the Court of the Gentiles. It was unlike anything I had seen before. Men surged around merchant stalls, their voices raised as they exchanged Roman coins for Temple currency and purchased sacrificial animals. The air was thick with dust, the bleating of sheep, and the clinking of coins. I wandered through the crowd, still searching, when I overheard a few merchants speaking in hushed, agitated tones.

They were talking about an incident that had taken place just days before. A man from Nazareth—my village—had entered the Temple and caused an uproar. Along with a group of his followers, he overturned the tables of the money changers and blocked the entrances to the courtyard. He had driven people out with a whip, shouting, “You have turned my Father’s house into a den of thieves!” The merchants were still seething with anger. They said the priests were furious, too, because this man’s actions had disrupted the business of the Temple during one of the most important weeks of the year.

I learned that the man had returned to the Temple the next day and begun teaching the crowds about the Kingdom of Heaven. That’s when I realized who he was—Jesus bar Joseph, the preacher from our village. I had heard rumors about him, stories of healings and miracles, even talk that he had raised a man from the dead. Some believed he was the Messiah, the one who would save Israel. My father, however, did not believe in such things.

I continued searching for our lamb, but as the hours passed, I grew weary and returned to our camp empty-handed. My father was disappointed but quickly went to purchase another lamb for our sacrifice. He returned shortly, tying the lamb securely this time. “We’ll go into the city tomorrow to enjoy the festival,” he said. I nodded, and after a long day, I went to bed early.

The next morning, after breakfast, we all entered the city together—my father, mother, sister, and I. The streets were buzzing with excitement as pilgrims prepared for the Passover feast. I wandered off, exploring a side street when I heard my father call out. I ran to his side, and he wrapped his arm around me, pulling me close. “Stay near,” he said, his voice tense. “Something is happening.”

I looked ahead and saw soldiers clearing a path through the crowd. A procession was approaching. As the crowd parted, I caught sight of a man struggling under the weight of a large wooden beam. He was naked, covered in blood, his skin torn and bleeding. A crown of thorns had been twisted onto his head, and he could barely walk.

I watched in horror as he stumbled and fell to the ground. The soldiers cursed at him, beat him, and ordered him to rise. When he couldn’t, they grabbed a man from the crowd and forced him to carry the beam. My father whispered to me, “That’s Jesus.”

I stared at the man I had only heard stories about. “What has he done?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” my father replied, his voice heavy with sorrow.

We followed the procession as it made its way out of the city, toward a hill called Golgotha. When we arrived, I saw two men already hanging on crosses, their bodies limp and lifeless. I watched as the soldiers prepared Jesus for his crucifixion. They stretched out his arms on the wooden beam, and a soldier raised a mallet.

The sound of the hammer striking the nails echoed across the hilltop. Jesus screamed in agony as the spikes were driven through his hands and feet. My stomach churned, and I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. I was transfixed by the sight before me.

The soldiers raised the cross and secured it into the ground. Jesus hung there, his blood staining the wood, his body trembling with pain. A crowd had gathered to watch, but many soon lost interest and drifted away. My father and I stayed, along with a few others.

I noticed a small group of women nearby, weeping softly. Among them was Jesus’ mother, Mary. I had seen her before, back in Nazareth. She stood close to the cross, her body wracked with sobs. A young man, who I assumed was one of Jesus’ disciples, stood by her side, supporting her.

Jesus stirred and tried to speak. His voice was weak, but he managed to call out to his mother. “Woman, behold your son,” he said, and then to the young man, “Behold your mother.” The young man nodded, tears streaming down his face as he held Mary close.

Moments later, Jesus whispered, “I thirst.” A soldier soaked a sponge in sour wine and lifted it to his lips, but Jesus turned away.

Then, with great effort, Jesus spoke once more: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” His voice was barely audible, but his words cut through the noise of the crowd. And then, with one final breath, Jesus said, “It is finished.”

As he spoke, the sky darkened, and a storm rolled in. Thunder rumbled, and lightning cracked across the sky. The wind howled, and the rain fell in torrents. The crowd scattered, running for shelter, but my father and I stood there, soaked to the bone, watching as Jesus’ lifeless body hung on the cross.

I tugged at my father’s sleeve. “Let’s go,” I pleaded, but when I looked up at him, I saw tears streaming down his face, mingling with the rain. He knelt beside me, pulling me close. Pointing to the cross, he whispered, “My beloved son, behold the Lamb.”

I will never forget that day. I went in search of a lamb, but what I found was far greater. I beheld the Lamb of God—the one who takes away the sin of the world.

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