A traveller am I.
I walk many paths as about my business I go.
I know nothing of the city life,
apart from that which I have seen.

Saw that day I walked into THE city.
Soldiers were everywhere,
bleary eyes and hazy minds trying to keep watch.

I was stopped.
Hauled from my path I was put under a cross.
A pack-horse I became as I followed that man up the hill.
He that I did not know,
but he that has changed my life.

Relived of my load I stood around.
I was now free, he was not, affixed to his end.
No hate he had, only love was in his heart.
He forgave his executioners.
Surely he was no criminal?

The temple leaders ow joined in this macabre show.
The falseness and vanity of their clothes and words
were stripped by the love of him they jeered at.

They were really jeering at themselves,
for they were the ones who were really dead.

Many people walked past, hurling the scraps of
their shattered illusions and smashed dreams
as insults. Sling-shot stings as he hung there.
He had come in peace,
why blame him for their own blindness?

All the stones did not come up from the ground.
A last word of selfishness, panic was yelled
from one of the true offenders.
The other realised and entered through the gate
all the others had failed to open.

He let go of this world.
And his spirit.

The Roman officer looked at his rabble and hung his head.
With true knowing he saw what his men had done.
Gambling over the spoils of crime.
Gambling with their lives.

His gambling had ended.
For he had reached the end of his game of chance.

A poem looking at the crucifixion from the point of view of the stranger dragged out from the crowd to carry Jesus’ cross.  

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