Golgotha
I was content to pass by on my way to Jerusalem with my basketful of leftover bread. A baker by trade, this is my busiest time of year. The Jews call it Passover. I call it profit. But the sky suddenly grows dark and I'm drawn to this rather bizarre spectacle on a hill called Golgotha by the Hebrews. I have witnessed men being executed here before, but this is different somehow. For one thing, the sky isn't just cloudy but sunless, starless, soulless. There are three execution stakes. The criminals look like scarecrows lit up by torches against an inky expanse. The one in the middle cries out in a tortured voice, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me." Then I'm sure I hear him whisper, "It has been accomplished. Into your hands I surrender my spirit." There is a sign above his head that reads, "Jesus the Nazarene King of the Jews." Then it hits me. I've heard of this Jesus. Everyone has who is not living under a rock. It is said he has healed people of terrible diseases. Some reports suggest he has even raised the dead. Of course, I have never subscribed to Jewish fables.
Just as I am musing it all over the ground below me shakes violently. My bread spills onto the ground, ruined. The Roman soldiers who wore mockingbird faces only a moment ago are now white as ghosts. One of them cries out, "Surely this was a son of the gods." I have never been a person of faith but I can tell you this, I will never forget this day. Some predict he will rise in three days. We shall see.
a price paid in blood
an end and a beginning
faith born on a hill
Copyright © Tom Woody | Year Posted 2023
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment