Free When Heaven Weeps by Ted Dekker

mad! He suddenly lowered his gun and studied the crowd, nodding slightly, tasting a new plan on his thick tongue.
    â€œHaul this priest to the large cross,” he said. No one moved. Not even Molosov, who stood behind Ivena.
    â€œAre you deaf, Molosov? Take him. Puzup, Paul, help Molosov.” He stared at the large stone cross facing the cemetery. “We will give them what they desire.”
    FATHER MICHAEL remembered stumbling across the concrete, shoved from behind, tripping to his knees once and then being hauled up under his arms. He remembered the pain shooting through his shoulder and thinking someone had pulled his arm off. But it still swung ungainly by his side.
    He remembered the cries of protest from the women. “Leave the Father! I beg you . . . He’s a good man . . . Take one of us. We beg you!”
    The world twisted topsy-turvy as they approached the cross. They left the girl lying on the concrete in pool of blood. Nadia . . . Nadia, sweet child. Ivena knelt by her daughter, weeping bitterly again, but a soldier jabbed her with his rifle, forcing her to follow the crowd to the cemetery.
    The tall stone cross leaned against a white sky, gray and pitted. It had been erected one hundred years earlier. They called it stone, but the twelve-foot cross was actually cast of concrete, with etchings of rosebuds at the top and at the beams’ intersection. Each end flared like a clover leaf, giving the instrument of death an incongruous sense of delicacy.
    The pain on his right side reached to his bones. Some had been broken. Oh, Father. Dear Father, give me strength . The dove still sat on the roof peak and eyed them carefully. The spring bubbled without pause, oblivious of this treachery.
    They reached the cross, and a sudden brutal pain shot through Michael’s spine. His world faded.
    When his mind crawled back into consciousness, a wailing greeted him. His head hung low, bowed from his shoulders, facing the dirt. His ribs stuck out like sticks beneath stretched skin. He was naked except for white boxer shorts, now stained in sweat and blood.
    Michael blinked and struggled for orientation. He tried to lift his head, but pain sliced through his muscles. The women were singing, long mournful wails without tune. Mourning for whom? For you. They’re mourning you!
    But why? It came back to him then. He had been marched to the cross. They had lashed him to the cross with a hemp rope around the midsection and shoulders, leaving his feet to dangle free.
    He lifted his chin slowly and craned for a view, ignoring the shafts of pain down his right side. The commander stood to his left, the barrel of his pistol confronting Michael like a small black tunnel. The man looked at the women, most of whom had fallen to their knees, pleading with him.
    A woman’s words came to Michael. “He’s our priest. He’s a servant of God. You cannot kill him! You can not.” It was Ivena.
    Oh, dear Ivena! Your heart is spun of gold!
    The priest felt his body quiver as he slowly straightened his heavy head. He managed to lift it upright and let it flop backward. It struck the concrete cross with a dull thump.
    The wailing ceased. They had heard. But now he stared up at the darkened sky. A white, overcast sky filled with black birds. Goodness, there must be hundreds of birds flying around up there. He tilted his head to his left and let it loll so that it rested on his good shoulder.
    Now he saw them all. The kneeling women, the children staring with bulging eyes, the soldiers. The commander looked up at him and smiled. He was breathing heavily; his gray eyes were bloodshot. A long thin trail of spittle ran down his chin and hung suspended from a wet chin. He was certifiably mad, this one. Mad or possessed.
    The lunatic turned back to the women. “One of you. That’s all! One, one, one! A single stray sheep. If one of you will renounce Christ, I will leave you all!”
    Father Michael felt