Standing in the crowded square, I’m peering over shoulders to see what the commotion is in the street. I see a man, barely clothed, dripping blood from the crown of thorns on his head to the lashes on his back to the chains around his ankles. He is surrounded by taunting soldiers. He carries, or rather staggers, under the weight of a wooden post. He’s bearing his own cross for his crucifixion.