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By William Van Zyl
Published March 3, 2026.
The morning air is heavy. Jerusalem hums with Passover pilgrims. Shulman kneels beside a low stone slab and begins grinding soot scraped from oil lamps into a shallow clay dish. He adds a splash of vinegar, a drop of olive oil, crushing the mixture into a dark paste. It is not the fine ink of a Roman scribe, nor the rich gall ink used on parchment scrolls. It is a makeshift lampblack-and-resin mixture, thickened to cling to rough timber. He trims a reed stalk into a crude pen, frays a small brush from goat hair, testing the stroke across a scrap of wood.
Isaac Shulman, the Jewish synagogue artist and signwriter, holds the weathered wooden board in his hands. He stretches it out before him, weighing its balance, feeling the grain beneath his calloused fingers. “I think Pontius Pilate will approve of this size,” he mutters. “He said write it in three languages so that everyone can read it: INRI.”
The board before him is uneven, splintered at the edges. He sands it lightly with a shard of stone. He knows wood drinks ink greedily; charcoal alone would smear and fade, so he binds the soot into paste. Each stroke must be deliberate. Each letter must withstand the sun.
From the synagogue tool shed, he has taken three crooked, used nails. They are small, bent from prior use. Placing them upon the ancient anvil, he strikes them straight with careful blows.
The anvil groans and pings, it reverberates—it speaks—as he hammers the nails:
“Salvator-Mundi-Salvator-Mundi-Salvator-Mundi.”
IMAGE: Isaac Shulman. AI-generated (ChatGPT, March 3, 2026).
As iron rings against iron, a memory pierces him—the cry of John the Baptist: “Make straight the crooked ways…” (Matthew 3:3, KJV). He swallows hard. These smaller nails are nothing compared to the three large nails that will pierce Yeshua’s flesh before sunset. His hands tremble.
IMAGE: The Titulus. AI-generated on March 3, 2026 – ChatGPT.
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I share my artwork with you: “Salvator Mundi.”
MEDIA: Charcoal (‘soot’) and Acrylic on canvas. Steel nails (tacks), copper sheeting (punched letters & sharded crown). Free-style machine sewing (black thread). Old vintage wooden frame.
Credit Artwork: The Author (created March 2026).
The Writing of the Titulus
According to John 19:19–20 (KJV), Pilate ordered a title—a titulus—to be placed above Jesus’ head. It was written in Hebrew (or Aramaic), Latin, and Greek:
- Latin (INRI): Iesus Nazarenus Rex Iudaeorum
- Greek (INBI): Ιησούς Ναζωραίος Βασιλεύς Ιουδαίων
- Hebrew/Aramaic: ישו מנצרת מלך היהודים
(Yeshua Ha’Netzeret V’Melech Ha’Yehudim)
John 19:20 tells us that many read it because the place of crucifixion was near the city. The proclamation was public, unavoidable, and multilingual. The official charge of Rome became, in divine irony, a royal declaration.
What Writing Media Could Have Been Used?
In the first century, several materials were common:
- Lampblack Ink (Carbon Ink)
Made from soot mixed with gum arabic or oil. Durable, dark, and widely used on papyrus and wood. This is perhaps the most plausible medium for a wooden placard. - Iron Gall Ink
Created from oak galls and iron salts. More common slightly later, but possibly known in rudimentary form. It penetrated surfaces deeply but required a smoother material than rough timber. - Charcoal
Simple and accessible. However, charcoal alone smudges easily. For a public execution sign meant to endure hours in the sun and wind, it likely needed to be bound with resin or oil. - Painted Pigment
Roman officials sometimes used painted lettering on boards for official notices. A mixture of soot or mineral pigment with egg (tempera style) could have created bold, visible lettering.
The board was likely coarse wood—perhaps reused scrap. The letters needed to be large and legible from a distance. Shulman would have sketched guidelines lightly, perhaps scoring shallow lines into the timber before committing ink to the grain.
The Mind of the Writer
As Shulman forms the Latin letters—IESVS NAZARENVS REX IVDAEORVM—he pauses at REX. King. The word feels dangerous. Rome crucifies kings?
He shifts to Greek, the language of commerce and philosophy. Each character curves carefully beneath his hand. Then, Hebrew—the sacred script of covenant and prophecy. Writing the holy tongue for a condemned man shakes him. Could this Nazarene truly be the Messiah? Or is this bitter satire?
When he finishes, he studies the board. Three languages. Three cultures. One sentence. He senses that history itself has been brushed onto timber.
He carries the titulus to Pilate. The Roman governor reads it, nods curtly. The chief priests object: “Write not, The King of the Jews; but that he said, I am King of the Jews.” Pilate’s answer is final: “What I have written I have written.” (John 19:22, KJV)
In that moment, authority signs more than a death warrant. Rome unwittingly publishes a gospel headline.
The Purpose and the Irony
Roman custom required the crime to be displayed. The titulus was a legal notice, a public warning. Yet this sign did more:
- It declared identity rather than merely accusation.
- It unified languages—Latin (power), Greek (culture), and Hebrew (faith).
- It transformed mockery into proclamation.
The cross became a pulpit. The wooden board, a sermon.
The Weathered Witness in Rome
Today, an ancient, heavily weathered wooden tablet—believed by some to be the original titulus—is preserved in the Basilica of the Holy Cross in Jerusalem, Rome, known as Basilica of Santa Croce in Gerusalemme.
The relic bears faint inscriptions and signs of age, cracked by centuries. Whether or not it is the original board from Golgotha, it stands as a tactile reminder: Christianity is not merely abstract theology. It is wood, ink, iron, and blood.
The timber is darkened. Letters appear worn, incomplete, almost ghostlike. The grain speaks of exposure. The plaque looks fragile, yet it has endured empires.
Wood, once fastened to a Roman cross, now rests within marble and gold. The instrument of shame has become an object of veneration.
The Hands that Signed It
Who truly signed that plaque?
- Pilate ordered it.
- A craftsman likely penned it.
- Priests protested it.
- Crowds read it.
But heaven authored it.
Isaac Shulman (a fictitious signwriter created by the author) may have dipped a reed into soot and oil, steadying his breath as he traced each stroke. He may have handed the board to Pilate with a conflicted heart. Yet beyond human politics and trembling craftsmanship, the inscription fulfilled prophecy.
The same hands that straightened crooked nails would soon see those nails lifted toward the sky. The small iron tacks for the signpost were nothing compared to the three that pierced the Saviour.
INRI was meant as an accusation.
It became a revelation.
The ink has faded.
The wood has weathered.
But the title remains.
Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews.
INRI
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IMAGE: Stunning painting of Yeshua on the Cross. By Diego Velázquez (1599–1660). Credit: Wikimedia.
IMAGE: Self-portrait: Diego Velázquez (1599–1660). Credit: Wikimedia.
The Original Placard?
TWO ABOVE IMAGES: An ancient, heavily weathered wooden tablet, believed by some to be the original, is kept in the Basilica of Santa Croce in Gerusalemme in Rome. Credit images: Posted by Refuge of Sinners (May 5, 2025). Facebook.
IMAGE: THE BASILICA OF THE HOLY CROSS IN ROME AND RELICS OF THE TRUE CROSS. The Basilica of the Holy Cross is home to “Relics of the True Cross”, which the tradition says are the fragments of the “True Cross” (the cross on which Jesus is believed to have been crucified) and one of the nails used in the Crucifixion of Jesus Christ that Saint Helen brought to Rome after her pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Credit images: Posted by Refuge of Sinners (May 5, 2025). Facebook.
Copyright © 2026 by William Van Zyl
INRI: The Hands That Ground The Soot
All rights reserved. This eBook/article or any portion
thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner
without the publisher’s permission, except for using brief quotations in a book review.
Published by Five House Publishing (New Zealand)
First Publishing, March 2026
More eBooks and articles are available at https://fivehousepublishing.com/
More about the author at http://williamvanzyl.com/
I like the story, like the writing ( but note the past tense of grind is ground).
Thanks John. I started to think about that. Much appreciated. If you pick up something like that, please let me know. Will change it. Cheers. William
John. Changed it just now. I appreciate you letting me know. In future, anything out of place, please notify me asap. Thank you! William