We Died By The King

I found myself, on a cross, with nails hammered into my writs. I realized I was not just on the cross, but hanging on a cross. I saw a man, on the opposite side of me. I wondered what he had done to be here. Maybe something stupid like I did?

I noticed another man was getting ready to die, next to us. I saw he had a crown of thorns upon his head. Was he some sort of king? Was this crown of his some sort of mockery? The man was whipped and tortured so much, he looked hardly human. I watched as he was positioned on the cross, with his arms out, and his feet at the bottom. I saw the Roman pick up the first nail and put it to his wrist. The Roman lowered the nail to his skin. The Roman lifted the hammer and threw it down. I heard the cracking of the bone, as it tore through the skin and the bone. The Roman did the same to the other side, and to his feet. I cringed at the sound of the nail going through him, his pain, and the way he looked.

Was I dying with a king? or was this some worthless fool like me?