Forgiven

Dust filled my mouth; the glare of a midday sun filled my eyes,
But I would not miss this.
Bursting through the crowds, I walked to each prisoner
I knew not their crimes
But I knew their punishment well.
My hate paced from criminal to criminal,
Jeering,
Spitting,
Laughing.
Until one man spoke.

“Forgive them, Father.”
Forgive them.
My tongue ceased.
My heart paused.
The earth trembled.
My eyes were dragged up to see the face of this man,
The one who used his last breath to forgive.
He looked down upon me, with eyes full of suffering.
And with that, his body trembled at the hand of death.



“The Crucifixion”












Francisco de Zubaran









1627: This painting
The sun set, casting shadow over his tortured, wracked body. was made and then left
I remained.







at the foot of the cross.
I averted my eyes.
Down and down they fell until my head was bowed.
Who am I to mock this man? To mock him for what?
Who am I, to revel in the death and torture of a man who forgave unconditionally?
Who is this man to forgive what is only known to the eyes of the gods?
Who am I to this man, the one who died for an unknown crime?
At least one question was answered.
I am Forgiven.