No mention is made of the size of the cross, how heavy it was, or what kind of wood was used in its making. We are not told whether Jesus fell under its weight, as he shouldered it, or of the logistics involved in nailing him to it and raising it from where it must have lain, on the ground, until it was standing in some fixed position. We are not told what Jesus looked like, or in what way the agony registered on his face, or if it registered at all. We are not told whether a fly alighted on him, while he hung there, or if a bird might have flown by, in the air, merely because it happened to have been in the vicinity at the time. We are not told of the precise coloring and shape of the rocks and the pebbles that might have been strewn here and there in the landscape. We are not told if there were bushes and vegetation. But we can dwell on these questions, and, by doing so, come to know, by way of our imagination, something more than we otherwise might about the friendship of God for us, because these questions are valid, arriving as they do out of a curiosity that is native to our condition, and helpful to our capacity for devotion, even if their answers cannot be known to us, and might be only incidental if they could.