Years ago, the Russian war-artist, Verestschagin painted three pictures, each the scene of an execution. The paintings were titled respectively, "Russian Execution," "A British Execution," and "A Roman Execution."
The first showed a cordon of cavalry surrounding a wretched Nihilist.
The second was that of a rebel Sepoy during the Indian Mutiny. He was lashed to the mouth of a cannon.
Then came the last: Three crosses standing side by side against the sky on the hill-top. They had nailed Him there— the Jew who had called Himself a king— nailed Him between two thieves that He might die the same death.
To the world it was just another Roman execution, an ordinary occurrence in the ordinary course of events. It seemed no more to the world than the death of the Nihilist or the Sepoy.
And yet the story of that deed, the story of the Cross, has stirred men's hearts and changed men's lives, and passed from nation to nation, till all men may hear the wondrous tidings.
What made such a vast difference between the first two scenes and the last? In each we see depicted a man about to suffer the last penalty of the law; the Nihilist for his rebellion against the Emperor; the Sepoy for his horrible crimes, his treachery against his officers. But the One on the cross?
Even the Roman judge before whom He had stood was forced to confess:
"I find no fault in this man."
The judge's wife sent a warning:
"Have thou nothing to do with that just man.
“The criminal on the cross beside Him said:
"This man hath done nothing amiss."
Surely "The chastisement of our peace was upon Him, and with His stripes we are healed."
He knew how guilty we had been,
He knew that God must punish sin,
So out of pity Jesus said:
"I'll bear the punishment instead."