Cross Perspectives
The Cross through the Perspective of Pilate, Simon of Cyrene, and The Father
Pilate’s Perspective
I’d seen many men brought before me—rebels, insurrectionists, thieves—but this one was different. They called Him Jesus of Nazareth. Accused of being a king, a threat to Rome, but as He stood before me, I saw no threat in Him. There was something unsettling about His calm, something disconcerting about His silence.
“Are you the king of the Jews?” I asked, hoping He would deny it, make this easier for both of us (Luke 23:3). He looked at me—not with fear, but with a quiet dignity. “You have said so,” He replied, as if that settled it. I felt an unexpected flicker of respect for Him, but I pushed it aside. I had a job to do.
The priests and leaders outside were relentless, shouting accusations, demanding His death. I sent Him to Herod, hoping to avoid condemning an innocent man. But Herod sent Him back, and soon the crowd was pressing in on me, more furious than before. “I find no basis for a charge against this man,” I announced to them, but my words only seemed to enrage them (Luke 23:14).
I offered a compromise: I would punish Him and release Him. But the mob wanted more than punishment—they wanted blood. “Crucify Him!” they cried, again and again. I offered them Barabbas, a known rebel, thinking they would choose to spare Jesus. They didn’t. The fury in their eyes was unlike anything I’d seen before. How could this man, who seemed so peaceful, be hated so much?
I appealed to them once more, almost pleading. “Why? What crime has this man committed?” But they only shouted louder. In that moment, I realized I had no real choice. I was the governor, but I was powerless against the tide of their hatred. If I released Him, there would be a riot, and that would be on my hands.
Finally, I gave the order. I released Barabbas and sentenced Jesus to crucifixion, hoping that washing my hands would somehow absolve me of this decision. But as I watched Him being led away, a heavy feeling settled in my chest. What if I just condemned an innocent man? Or worse—what if He really was who they said He was? I didn’t know. And that question would haunt me long after that day.
Simon of Cyrene’s Perspective
I had only come to Jerusalem for the Passover. I didn’t know much about what was happening in the city that morning, but I quickly realized something big was taking place. A crowd had gathered along the streets, and in the center of it all, I saw a man carrying a cross. He looked beaten, exhausted, barely able to stand. Blood trickled down His face from a crown of thorns pressed onto His head.
Before I could think, a Roman soldier grabbed me, forcing me forward. “You! Carry His cross!” he barked. I wanted to protest, to tell him this wasn’t my business, but the soldier’s grip was firm. There was no escape. I stepped forward, feeling the rough weight of the wood pressing down on my shoulders.
I turned to look at the man beside me, the one they called Jesus. His face was bruised, swollen, but His eyes—they were steady, almost calm. He looked at me, and in that glance, I felt something shift inside me. He didn’t say anything, but somehow, it was as if He was thanking me, as if He understood my reluctance and my fear.
As we walked, I could hear the crowd mocking Him, calling Him names. “If you’re the Son of God, save yourself!” they sneered. But He said nothing in return, just kept moving forward, step by agonizing step. I felt anger rising in me—anger at the cruelty of it all, anger that they could treat a man like this. Who was He to them? What had He done to deserve this?
When we reached the hill, I laid down the cross, exhausted but strangely connected to this man. I’d come to Jerusalem a stranger, but in those brief moments, I felt like I’d shared in His burden. And then, as they nailed Him to the cross, He looked up toward heaven and spoke words I’ll never forget: “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.” (Luke 23:34).
Forgive them? Forgive these people who mocked Him, who tortured Him, who were now nailing Him to a cross? My mind reeled. Who had that kind of love, that kind of mercy? I couldn’t comprehend it. Here was a man who had every right to curse those who wronged Him, yet He was asking for their forgiveness.
The Father’s Perspective
From the beginning of creation, I knew this day would come. I saw humanity turn away, again and again, choosing darkness over light, choosing themselves over Me. I knew there was no other way to heal this brokenness, no way to bring my children home unless there was a sacrifice.
Watching my Son carry that cross was a grief deeper than the depths of the earth. He was innocent, yet He bore the sins of everyone—the betrayer and the betrayed, the denier and the devoted, the mocker and the meek. I heard every insult, felt every lash, and saw every wound, but my Son bore them willingly. Love compelled Him, and love compelled Me.
As He hung on the cross, barely clinging to life, He looked up and whispered, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.” (Luke 23:34). And with those words, He sealed the promise. He carried their shame, their guilt, their blindness. Even as they rejected Him, He loved them with an everlasting love.
This moment was why He had come—to forgive, to restore, to bring hope even to those who could not see. And I accepted His plea. I forgave them, and through Him, I forgave everyone who would ever turn back to Me.
Epilogue:
For Pilate, those words would echo long after that day. He had condemned an innocent man, yet that man’s final plea was forgiveness. Could it extend even to him? Could forgiveness reach the hands that had signed His death sentence?
For Simon, Jesus’ words became a turning point. He had come to Jerusalem as a stranger, yet he left with a purpose he could not ignore. The man he had helped carry was no ordinary man. Could anyone love so deeply, forgive so freely?
And for the Father, these words marked the fulfillment of His greatest promise. The moment that forgiveness entered the world as a gift, not earned, but given. Through the cross, the world was offered a new beginning—a chance to be known, loved, and redeemed.
“Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.” These words reach beyond Golgotha, speaking into every heart, offering a forgiveness that we cannot fully understand but are invited to receive. Can we accept it? And, in turn, can we learn to forgive as He forgave?
It is all about seeking Jesus on deeper theological levels.
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I’d seen many men brought before me—rebels, insurrectionists, thieves—but this one was different. They called Him Jesus of Nazareth. Accused of being a king, a threat to Rome, but as He stood before me, I saw no threat in Him. There was something unsettling about His calm, something disconcerting about His silence.
