If Jesus had lived in Wales

Friday 

Got woken up at an ungodly hour by a kick in the ribs from a guard. “Time to get up, sunshine. Today’s the day.”

I was about to swear at him when I remembered who I was and sighed deeply instead.

“Do you want a priest to hear your confession?”

“Urh, no. I’m the son of God, remember?”

"So?"

"Well, a) I don't have any sins to confess, and b) I'm the son of God."

“Aright, aright, gotta ask. Now,” he pointed across the room. “Pick a cross, any cross.”

I walked over and inspected the range. I shook my head. “Where did you get these? Terrible quality.”

“As long as they’re cheap and strong enough to hold a body, that’s all they care about.”

I shook my head again. “That’s the trouble with people these days. No pride in their work. Next time go to Joseph and Sons, carpenters, in Nazareth.  Mention my name and you’ll get a good discount.”

“Just pick one, will you?”

I chose the one with the fewest rough edges. The last thing I wanted was splinters. I tested it out on my shoulder. “Phew,” I said, “that’s a bit heavy. Can you get the other end for me?”

“Would you like us to carry it for you too?”

“That would be good, yeah.”

The guard gave a nasty sneer. “Hear that, lads, he’d like us to carry his cross for him.”

The other guards burst out laughing and began poking me with their spears. I got the message.

The guards opened the doors and we looked out. 

“Aw no,” one of the thieves with whom I’d share my cell groaned. “It’s piddling down. We’ll get soaked.”

My guard laughed but in a way I was learning to identify as mean. 

“The road will be streaming with sheep and camel shit,” he said. “You know what that means, lads?”

I looked at the other two. They shrugged so I asked, dreading the answer, “What does it mean?”

“Chances are you’ll land face down in it!”

I sighed. So much for my hopes for a good Friday.