by Sue Stone
The last moment
when you stood upon the ground,
felt the dust beneath your feet,
and had the dignity of your clothes,
blood stained and dirty though they were,
did the women who offered you
wine and myrrh wonder at the gentle look you gave them,
and the firm rejection
of the small mercy they offered?
Did the soldiers who prepared for your death,
hard men, they,
at your side since the procession began
wonder at how you were diferent,
as you calmly gave them the last of your wordly goods,
garment by garment.
Did they notice,
and did it make them angry,
that you,
who should have been cringing, cursing and crying
calmly waited for the next wave of pain.
Did those travelling into the city that day,
who could not help but see the executors at work
call out in recognition,
in pity, or in scorn
as the soldiers
threw you to the ground and took out the nails?
