It was some time between eleven and eleven-thirty that morning when I finally got to see my son. The circumstances were not how I had wanted them. There was a great crowd outside of the fortress that day. There were many rabbis and scribes and soldiers that came out of the fort with my son. At the time it was a puzzle to me.

Two other prisoners were being executed along with my son that day. I remember wondering which of the women in the crowd were their mothers. Did they have the same feelings I had? How I wanted to cry with them! Only their mothers could understand how I was feeling at that moment.

I had seen other prisoners led to their crucifixion before but never had so many of the details jumped out at me as they did that day when I saw my son, my precious child. There was such fear in his eyes.

He looked like he had not eaten well for some time. His skin color was poor. He looked as if it had been weeks since he had a bath. He used to pride himself on his personal hygiene.

The soldiers had tied his hands together and over his right shoulder had been placed the "tree." This was the crosspiece only; the upright part of the cross was always left standing at the place of execution and was used many times. The crosspiece was of cypress, about three inches by five inches, and about six feet long. I knew it weighed about thirty pounds but it looked so much heavier on my son's shoulders.

The column of soldiers and prisoners were led by the centurion. I can still hear so clearly his call for the column to march: "Forward, March!" A few of the high priests moved aside. One of the prisoners had obviously been severely beaten and was having great difficulty carrying his own cross. In fact he stumbled and fell a couple of times.

The road from the fortress to Golgotha was almost one thousand paces -- about three thousand feet. The first part of the march was along a narrow road, hardly more than twelve feet wide, up a slight incline, then sharply down into the valley below. My son had walked that road hundreds of times as he was growing up. But he had never walked it like he was walking today. In fact, he would never walk that road again. It was his last walk anywhere.

The parade that day moved slower than usual because the prisoner who had been beaten so severely was staggering and stumbling and was able to move at only a snail's pace. The legionnaires had to keep moving the crowd back, on occasions even using their spears. The soldiers who led on the horses shouted continuously for the people to make way for the soldiers of Rome.

At the bottom of the hill the column turned to the left. This was at the edge of the big market in Jerusalem. It was at this point that the procession came to a halt. One of the prisoners had fallen flat on his face and the crossbeam still rested on his shoulders and back. A farmer, a black-skinned man -- someone told me later he was of Cyrene -- was made to carry the prisoner's cross the final steps to the place of crucifixion. Mercifully, the column moved that last part of the journey a little faster.