What Easter Means To Me: the Legionnaire's Account
All dressed in purple like a king,
The man was spat at, flogged and mocked,
And forced to carry his own cross,
As witnessed by the crowds that flocked.
I listened to their hateful words,
And wondered what his crime had been,
I felt compassion for the man:
The stoutest victim I had seen.
I offered wine, which he refused -
But gratitude was on his face -
I muttered, ‘Sorry I’ll be quick,’
And sadly nailed him into place.
His cross was raised at nine o’clock.
He suffered much; his mother cried.
I prayed to my gods for the end.
At three o’clock the brave man died.
Copyright © Jack Horne | Year Posted 2011
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