He Met Jesus[1]
It was a time
Now buried in history,
Never to be raised in actuality,
But only in the soft breath of memory.
His name was Marcellus,
A centurian of noble family,
A family of taste and grace,
Well respected in high society.
He had insulted the Emperor,
Whose wrath was unquenchable,
For which he was sent
To Rome’s despicable Palestine.
Then the time came
When by order of Pilate,
The hated governor,
The Roman noble
Was ordered to
His first crucifixion.
He stood by the sacred cross,
His hand placed on the pole,
Now stained by the blood
Of the Father’s only Son,
The redeemer of the world.
Ridden with fear and anguish,
He called for the blood-stained
Robe of the crucified one
To be placed upon him.
Then, plagued with agony.
He tore the blood-dripping cloth
From his shoulders.
He could not find peace,
Calling in strident tone,
“Were you there,
Were you there.”
His madness was unquenchable.
To find assuagement
He was sent by royal command
To find and destroy the evil.
Now returned to Palestine
He sought for the robe,
For a long time
With no success.
But the day came,
Filled with heaven’s light
When, draped with the robe,
He found release and peace.
He placed it on his shoulders,
Then saw in faith redemption,
The release from all his sin,
And from sin, the glory of salvation.
For his single obedience to God
The act Rome would not permit,
The act he would not renounce,
He was brought to his death.
Then his sweet one,
The beautiful, graceful, Diana,
Stood by his side,
Both walking side by side
Through the gates of death,
To the heavenly land
Of life eternal.
That blood, shed so long ago,
Is also our own redemption.
It is a fountain,
So unlike the Semitic pit
Of dripping blood.
It signifies lost life
Of the Redeemer,
Who in giving Himself to death
Called us from death to life.
Copyright © 2012 by J. Prescott Johnson
[1]This poem is based on the novel The Robe.