He was a centurion
A soldier who had watched men die
Hundreds of times
His eyes became hard
His mind learned to deflect
To package it neatly in a box
To keep it from following him home

He had driven nails through flesh
Many times, many times
But the waiting was the hard part
He had hardened himself
By searching the crowds
Feeding off their anger, their taunts
Rationalizing, packaging it all
Neatly in a box
To keep it from following him home

Then a man came bloody, half dead
Hurry, hurry—Caiphas’s  men said
The centurion hammered, as always
Clang, crunch
Clang, crunch
His colleagues, jaded, joking, added a sign
Then they lifted the man up to die
The soldier’s hardened eyes searched the crowd
To wait, to rationalize
He blocked out the crying women
Tried to ignore the man’s words from the cross

Then
Too soon
The man died.

The soldier searched the battered face.
He frowned.
It was much too early
Who could die this way?
Forgiving the taunting crowds?
Speaking hope through suffocating pain?
Surrendering his life instead of being robbed of it?

The sky’s lights went out
Fear gripped him, and he gripped his sword
The rumbling began
His feet shaken from beneath him
He turned toward the cross
Wishing he could see

The earth burst open, along with his heart
All his carefully closed boxes shook
This man’s death would certainly follow him home

His breath quickened
He knew.
The mocking sign had not lied.
He cried out, “Surely this man was the Son of God!”
Light split open his darkness
A declaration erupted from changed eyes
Not from watching a man live,
but from watching Him die

~suelarkinsweems