Regret

roman soldier 2Based on John 18:28 – 19: 16

Rome never slumbers. The early morning clatter of chariot wheels and the rhythmic march of passing soldiers wake me before dawn. I long to rise and watch them, to recall what makes ours the greatest empire on earth, but pain pins me to my sleeping pallet. The gods have taken everything from me, even these simple pleasures. My wife … dead. My sons … indifferent. My rightful status stripped from me, humiliatingly, by the Emperor. Curse them all! Gods and people alike.

Soon one of my few remaining slaves will come to dress and feed me. Even in his eyes I will read scorn. To him I am an old, dying man. He will not see what I once was—a Roman prefect, power-wielder and judge, bestower of life and death. Continue reading

The Wait and the Wonder

graveThe hiss of my name draws me from a restless dream. Momentarily, relief surges through me; the gnarled hands pushing up from the soil to grasp at my brother’s ankles are not real. ‘Just a dream, just a dream’, my heart pounds loudly.

“Martha!” I hear the fear in my sister’s voice.

I stumble from the sleeping palette, remembering how Mary had coaxed me to leave Lazarus’ side in the night. “I will watch him for a few hours,” she had said. “He seems slightly better.” Because I was exhausted from two constant days and nights of standing vigil, I had agreed. And it was true that Lazarus no longer thrashed around in pain, even though his body still burned with fire.

Now I drop to my knees by his side. My fingers graze his forehead; its scorching heat shocks me. Only then, in the candlelight’s flicker, do I notice that Lazarus’ eyes are open. Yet, it is not my gaze he holds; his glazed eyes already seem to roam worlds far beyond our own. Continue reading

The Masterpiece

The sunset sky, shining with an array of hues

Silently declares your creativity

And I wonder if you crafted me

From such a vast palette of colours.

Right now I feel only grey and drab.

Then I remember I am your “poiema”, your masterpiece

Of which you are the most proud.

Forgive me for not reflecting your glory, like that still sky

For repressing my creative radiance

For feeling unworthy

When I am shaped in your very own image. Continue reading