Escorted by soldiers, Jesus carries the patibulum, or the crossbeam, to Golgotha. Once there, the soldiers nail him to it, hoist him ten feet high onto a vertical beam, and display him to the city. Then Pilate writes. According to one commentator, it was likely in large letters, probably black or red, against a white gypsum board mounted to the cross: JESUS OF NAZARETH, THE KING OF THE JEWS. It's in Aramaic so the locals can read it, in Latin for the army, and in Greek as a message to the empire. It's an unbearable truth for his spiritual enemies. They protest, but no opposition can erase what was written. Then God writes the completion of an old story. A thousand years ago, Psalm 22 foretold, "They divided my clothes among themselves, and they cast lots for my clothing." As the soldiers swat flies from their eyes, they sort through Jesus' clothes. Four items for four men, a neat division. But the seamless tunic is too good to tear, so they roll the dice. The soldiers complete a script they've never read. Then Jesus writes a new story. Four women and a beloved disciple draw close enough to hear him as he gasps for air. John records that he spoke a new family into existence: "Here is your son." "Here is your mother." Pilate writes the truth unknowingly. God writes and soldiers comply, unknowingly. Jesus knows, and he writes a story of love.