I strained my eyes to see if I could recognize him. His face was badly beaten; it was so swollen and bloody that I could not tell who the man was. Part of his beard had been ripped out, and there was a circle of thorns smashed onto the top of his head. Blood trickled from each thorn down his face and neck. He wore a purple robe, which stuck to his body where his blood had congealed on the fabric. Th e guards ripped the robe off of the man, causing fresh blood to drip from wounds that were trying to heal. There did not appear to be a place on his body that was not red, bloody, or torn. . . As I looked at him, I supposed the man in the middle had also passed out, because he was silent, although his chest still rose and fell. His eyes were closed, and his head lolled over one shoulder as though he were sleeping. Even right beside him, I still did not recognize this man. I looked at the piece of wood the guard had nailed over the man's head. It read "King of the Jews" in several different languages, but it gave me no clue as to who he was. I had been raised a Jew, but that was a long time ago. I absolutely did not know this man.
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