A nightmare night,
a night of shadows,
he sat there by the fire,
cold,
alone,
afraid,
yet drawn to this place of danger
by a desperate desire to do something.
The darkness of his soul
how it matched the darkness of the night
as he sat by the fire
not listening to the jibes
of those who sat near him.
He stared into the fire
and waited.
His world falling apart,
he thought there was nothing left but fear.
"No, I don't know him," he said,
the words escaping his lips
in an unstoppable reflex
of self preservation.
Fear and anger and anguish,
the darkness of the night,
the pain of waiting,
"No, you are mistaken!"
he chokes on the words, perhaps,
torn in two.
The third time with curses,
and then he sees
the eyes that know,
the eyes so tired, so sad,
the eyes touch his
with loving forgivness
and his soul plunges into the final darkness
as the cock crows.
After the earthquake
and you got up off your knees, Centurion,
as your men remembered who they were --
soldiers, and not frightened children, and took their places back --
did you look long and hard
on that limp, empty body hanging there on the cross,
battered and beaten at the hands of your men,
and think about the stories about him you had heard?
Had it bothered you as the day wore on,
the impassioned politics of this day screaming for blood,
winding about their strange God in this strange land,
in ways you didn't quite understand?
But you had seen the amount of hate he had generated
in the shallow, grasping power plays
by men who would spit on you if they thought you weren't looking.
Jerusalem,
a city smoldering with tension
as the festival peaked,
threatening to blow up in a conflagration -
and as he hung there like a blood sacrifice designed to appease something unseeable,
did it dawn on you that you and your men were the tools
in the hand of forces beyond your vision,
that painful march from palace to execution site
a dark lustral procession
with you as master of ceremonies?
Such a day.
Standing there, transfixed by his dead gaze,
the blood-streaked face,
the blood-wetted hair
as you looked up into a face touched with no anger, no hate,
but a weary bloodied acceptance,
and a certain, strange peace as in a job well done.
After it all,
after the mockery and the forgiveness,
after the darkness,
after the last drawn out cry,
after the earthquake,
you no longer questioned -
you knew that you had been touched by the hand of Heaven.
.
"Surely this man,
this righteous man
was the son of God."
you said loud enough to be heard.
Would you have been amazed to know
how long those words have been remembered?
KAC