Simon of Cyrene, why were you on the scene? Why were you there that day?
Those ruthless Roman soldiers compelled you to carry their instrument of execution up that dusty hill. Did some of his blood and sweat and torn flesh drip on you from that chunk of wood? Some of his stigma and scorn cast their bitter shadows over you?
Tell me, Simon from Cyrene, was it blind fate that left you in the wrong place, at the wrong time, losing your dignity under the force of a brutal regime? The stain of the shame never quite removed from you…
Or was it providence that lead you near Golgotha that day? Was your greatest honour being chosen to carry that frame as a beautifully graceful King paid a ransom for you and for many? Did goodness and mercy follow you all your days as you spoke of what you had seen?
Simon of Cyrene, you were at the scene.
Where does it leave you today?