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Before the middle upright of the three,
he stood---a Roman soldier, probably
off duty with a pass of liberty.
But this time, neither brothel nor saloon
attracted him.  His eyebrows knit a frown;
his cheeks had reddened with his gaze cast down
upon the blood that stained the upright's foot.
His mind reeled---yesterday's long afternoon
was "just another routine crucifixion;
"one more opponent of Rome's empire put
"to death.  That is the way we must assert
"order.  This is our duty, not a bother."
Against these swaggered words, a strange conviction
pulsated, as tears wet his eyes like mist.
"My hammer pounded nails into each wrist---
"my aim is good.  I watched the fresh blood spurt.
"But something else, toward which my thought is driven:
"as we lifted the crosspiece into place,
"he spoke---(you should have seen his swollen face.
"through scalp's blood, purple and, in some spots, blue)---
"I think he prayed for us as he said, 'Father,
"'forgive them for they know not what they do.'"
My sins are many---multitudes---but this
(and it was sin, despite Rome's policy)
the worst I have done, and always shall be.
How can someone, like I am, be forgiven?---
even at peace for a moment, peace and bliss.
I wish---although he is dead---I could speak
to him, just once; and, that once, I would seek
some answer to this overwhelming sorrow
that clouds today, nor will relent tomorrow.

Starward

[jlc]