It is 3:00 in the afternoon, the sky is dark, the wind is blowing wild over the hills.
Jesus hangs on the cross, without expression, limp.
Suddenly, he tilts back his head, his body is wracked with pain. His eyes open wide, seeming to burst out.
He screams, “Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?!” (“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?!”)
People run over, one with sour wine, hoping to help him, not caring about the Romans.
There is pandemonium in the Temple, the curtain covering the Holy of holies has ripped.
His body tenses, he twists in agony. Then he stills, his body collapses, pulling on the nails in his wrists. He breathes heavy for a moment, then calms. The wind gusts, and stops.
“It is finished,” he whispers.
He lifts his head, looks around, and shouts, “Father, I entrust my spirit into your hands!”
His shoulders lift with a deep breath, then fall, not moving anymore. The wind picks up.
The Centurion in charge restores some order to the crowd, then says, “Surely this man was the son of God.”
The sacrifice has been made. Jesus is dead.