We don’t know what the weather was like 

As Jesus carried his cross to the place of execution.

Was the ground dry, so that each footstep cast dust into the air 

Which choked him as he stooped under the weight and gasped for breath?

Or was there a light drizzle, making the wood slippery 

And harder to hold onto,

Forcing splinters into those kind hands

As the heavy timber shifted in his grasp?

Perhaps the ground was muddy,

Each step a struggle to gain traction,

Hampering progress as his feet sank in thick puddles.

When Simon of Cyrene stepped in to help bear the load

Was the sun shining?

Sunbeams peeping through the clouds 

To light the way,

Or a relentless heat.

Did the women weep and wail 

In a downpour of rain as though heaven wept with them?

Was the wind behind him

Helping him along but whipping hair into his face?

Or perhaps against him

Pushing him back

So he had to be all the more determined 

To walk the road to death.

Oh, we know about the darkness 

And the earthquake that came later...

But did it rain?