The way has a rhythm, it is marked by falls. The body weakened and weakened, the trip, the stumble. Is he solitary? Is there anyone to help him up?
The frustration being too weak to walk even to one's own execution. The taste of dirt, mixing with the blood from cuts and dusty sweat. Woe to the solitary man.
Feet bleeding, the cross heavy even with the aid of the stranger. Friends and apostles are nowhere to be seen, only the scourge of the soldier as all Jerusalem watches him stumble towards his death. Woe to the solitary man.
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