Publisher's Synopsis
Travel with David Patton as he shares his experiences of friendship, forgiveness, and the grace of a Savior with his grandson, Mark. This poem captures the heart of the story. CENTURION'S STORY I am standing on a hill- Golgotha, place of the skull. My gleaming sword is at my side, My armor shines in fading sunlight. Before me lie three crosses, Upon which are two thieves, And a man that some would call The King of the Jews. I stride toward the man on the cross- Toward the traitor; a man of blasphemy. In my hand I grasp a hammer- My heart beats rapidly, warningly- But still, I lift the hammer. A soldier kneels before me, Holding a nail, awaiting my blow. The hammer glows dark against the sun, My arm is strong, my heart is fury. I bring down the hammer with powerful force. A cry of agony, but falls deaf on my ears. Blow after blow I rain down on the nail, Now pierced deep in the hand of a man, And through to the wooden cross. I pause for a moment, My soldier grasps the second nail. My hammer rises, falls yet again. Once more my hammer drops. But my strength begins to leave me. I look down slowly, Into the face of the One on the cross. His eyes pierce mine, burning, searing... With love? Compassion? Can it really be? His eyes gaze right through me- Straight to my very soul. His gaze is kingly, His eyes are noble; So full of love for me- For me! Oh, wretched man I am! My grasp falters, The hammer flees my hand. Remorse floods. Then angry eyes approach me, A stinging blow upon my face, Another soldier takes my place. The deed is done, the cross is raised. I look a last time, Upon my Savior's face. Incomparable love, unfaltering mercy, His eyes speak of grace. "I killed You...I killed You, And You love me?" I whisper, tears filling my eyes. A voice of peace comes, "My son, you are forgiven." To forgive your murderer! Could only be a perfect heart That loved one such as I. But, alas! The deed is done. "It is finished!" is His cry. Stumbling forward, blinded by tears, I lay my guilty hands Upon the rough surface of the cross. "Truly," I whisper, through grief unbearable, "Truly, this was the Son of God."