Centurion

Another native above his station,
Needing to be taught a simple lesson,
Lest others be led into temptation,
Convicted quickly in late-night session,
We put him in his place, duly mocked
We raise him from the earth onto hard wood
Him who our great order would have rocked
Nail him to die, choking on his own blood.
He breaths his last, jeering turns to silence
Sky inks to blackness, the air drops dead
The crowd struck dumb by noiseless violence
Whose life is this which we so roughly bled?
Then through my bones a lightning bolt has run
That I have just killed God’s holy son.

Print