The Centurion's Story

I am an old man now; the burden of fourscore years is resting upon me. But the events of a certain April day in the year 783 A.U.C.--full half a century ago--are as fresh in my memory as if they had happened yesterday.

At that time I was stationed with my Hundred on garrison duty at the Castle of Antonia, in Jerusalem. I had been ordered to take charge of the execution of a malefactor who had just been sentenced to death. Accordingly, on the morning of the day mentioned, I selected twelve of my men, such as were hardened to bloody deeds, and with them I proceeded to the Praetorium. All was hurry and excitement there. As it was the time of the Jewish Passover, the city was thronged with strangers. A multitude of people had assembled and were clamoring for the death of this man. On our arrival he was brought forth. He proved to be that Prophet of Nazareth whose oracular wisdom and wonder-working power had been everywhere noised abroad. I had heard much about him.

He claimed to be the Messiah for whose advent the Jews had been looking from time immemorial; and his disciples believed it. They called him by such well-known Messianic titles as "Son of Man," "Son of David" and "Son of God." He spoke of himself as "the only-begotten Son of God," declaring that he had been "in the bosom of the Father before the world was," and that he was now manifest in human form to expiate the world's sin. This was regarded by the religious leaders as rank blasphemy and they clamored for his death. He was tried before the Roman court, which refused to consider the charge, inasmuch as it involved a religious question not lying within its jurisdiction; but the prisoner, being turned over to the Sanhedrin, was found worthy of death for "making himself equal with God."

I remember him well as he appeared that day. From what I had heard I was prepared to see a hard-faced impostor or a fanatic with frenzy in his eyes. He was a man of middle stature, with a face of striking beauty and benignity, eyes of mingled light and warmth, and auburn hair falling over his shoulders. It was not strange that he looked pale and haggard; for he had passed through three judicial ordeals since the last sunset, besides being scourged with the flagellum horrible and exposed to the rude buffeting of the midnight guard. He had been clothed in the cast-off purple of the Roman procurator and wore a derisive crown of thorns. But, as he issued from the Hall of Judgment, such was his commanding presence that the multitude was hushed and separated to make way.

The cross, constructed of transverse beams of sycamore, was brought and laid upon his shoulders. About his neck was suspended a titulum on which was inscribed, Jesu Nazaret, Rex Judaeorum. I was told that the Jewish leaders had objected to his being called their King; but Pilate, by whose orders the titulum was prepared, was for some reason insistent and answered them shortly, "What I have written, I have written." It was easy to see, however, that they bitterly resented it.

At the accustomed signal my quaternions fell into the line and the procession moved on. I rode before, clearing the way. The people thronged the narrow streets, crying more and more loudly as we proceeded, "_Staurosate! Staurosate!_ Crucify him!"

The Nazarene, weak from long vigils and suffering, bowed low under his burden. A woman in the company, by name Veronica, pressed near and wiped the dust and blood from his haggard face. It was reported that the napkin when withdrawn bore the impress of his face, marred, but divinely beautiful. Whether this be true or not I cannot say.

As the multitude surged onward toward the Jaffa gate, a cobbler named Ahasuerus, as if moved by a malignant spirit, thrust his foot before the prisoner, who stumbled thereat and fell. In punishment for that cruel deed he is said to be still a wanderer upon the earth with no rest for his weary feet. This, too, is a mere legend; but certainly I have found, even in the grim business of a soldier, that retribution like a fury pursues all pitiless men.

We passed through the Jaffa gate and entered upon the steep road leading to the place of execution. The sun flamed down upon us; we were enveloped in a cloud of dust. The prisoner at length, overborne by his cross, fell beneath it. We seized upon an Ethiopian who chanced to be in the throng and placed the burden upon him. Strange to tell, he assumed it without a murmur; insomuch that by many he was suspected of being a secret follower of Jesus.

As we surged on with din and uproar a group of women standing by the wayside rent the air with shrill lamentations, on hearing which Jesus said, "Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but for yourselves and your children; for behold the days come when they shall say to the mountains, Fall on us! and to the hills, Cover us!" It was a weird prophecy, and ere a generation passed it was to the letter fulfilled. There were those in that company who lived to see the Holy City compassed about by a forest of hostile spears. Its inhabitants were brought low by famine and pestilence, insomuch that the eyes of mothers rested hungrily on the white flesh of their own children. On the surrounding heights crosses were reared, on which hundreds of Jewish captives died the shameful death. Despair fell upon all. And in those days there were not a few who called to mind the ominous words of the Nazarene, "Weep not for me, but for yourselves and for your children after you!"

The road we journeyed has since been known as Via Dolorosa. It led to the round knoll called Golgotha, from its resemblance to a skull. As we drew nigh we perceived two crosses, already reared, on which two thieves of Barabbas' band had been suspended in agony for some hours. Their twisted bodies stood out grimly against the sky. Our prisoner, as an added mark of obloquy, was to be crucified between them.

Our spears and standards were lowered, and Jesus, being stripped of his outer garments, was laid prostrate upon his cross. A soldier approached with hammer and spikes, at sight of whom the frenzied multitude ceased their revilings for the moment and pressed near. The prisoner preserved his calm demeanor. A stupefying draught was offered him; but he refused it, apparently preferring to look death calmly in the face. He stretched out his hands; the hammer fell.

At the sight of blood the mob broke forth again, crying, "_Staurosate!_" But not a word escaped the sufferer. As the nails tore through the quivering flesh his eyes closed and his lips moved as if he were holding communion with some invisible One. Then with a great wrench the cross was lifted into the socket prepared for it.

At this moment the first word escaped him. With a look of reproach and an appealing glance to heaven, he cried, "Father, forgive them; they know not what they do!" It was as if he were covering our heads with a shield of prayer. In this he did but practise his own rule of charity and doctrine of forgiveness, "Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them that despitefully use you."

His prayer, however, seemed but to rouse anew the fury of his enemies. They cried out in mockery, "Come down! come down from thy cross. Thou that boastest of destroying the Temple and rebuilding it in three days, save thyself!" The priests and rabbis, standing by, joined in the mockery, saying, "Aha, he saved others, himself he cannot save! Let him come down if he be the Messiah, the chosen of God!" My soldiers meanwhile disputed as to the apportionment of his garments; I noted the rattling of dice in the brazen helmet wherein they were casting lots for his seamless robe.

The thieves on either hand joined for a time in the mockery; but presently a change came over the one upon the right, whose name was Dysmas.

This man, like his fellow, had belonged to a notorious band of robbers who infested the road to Jericho. His life had been passed in bloody work; but the patient demeanor of Jesus touched his heart and convinced him that He was indeed the veritable Son of God. The other thief joined in the mockery, but Dysmas remonstrated with him, saying, "Dost thou not even fear God? We indeed are condemned justly, receiving the due reward of our deeds; but this man hath done nothing amiss." Then presently, turning his pain-racked eyes toward Jesus, he entreated, "Lord, remember me when thou comest in thy kingdom!" The Nazarene straightway turned upon him a look of compassionate love, saying, "To-day thou shalt be with me in paradise!"

An hour later this robber's head sank upon his breast; but in death his face wore a look of indescribable peace. The time came when the word of pardon addressed to this man was a message of hope and comfort to other great sinners. He who saved Dysmas in the article of death, plucking him from the edge of the abyss, was thenceforth believed by His followers to be able to save even unto the uttermost all who would come unto Him.

Not far from the cross stood a company of women wringing their hands in helpless grief. Among them was the mother of Jesus. When her infant son had been brought to the Jewish Temple, an old priest took him from his mother's arms and prophesied, "This child is set for the fall and rise of many in Israel"; then looking upon the mother, he said: "A sword shall pass through thine own soul also." At this moment his word was fulfilled; the iron entered her soul. Her dying Son beheld her, and, with his eyes directing her to one who was known as his favorite disciple, he said, "Woman, behold thy Son!" and this disciple thereupon bore her fainting away.

It was now noon, clear, scorching, Syrian noon. But a singular mist was gathering before the sun. Shadows fell from the heights of Moab; and as they deepened more and more the gleam on shield and helmet faded out. Night rose from the ravines, surging upward in dark billows, overwhelming all. A strange pallor rested on all faces.

It was night, an Egyptian night at high noon! What meant it? Manifestly this was no eclipse, for the paschal moon was then at its full. The Jews had ofttimes clamored for a sign, a sign whereby they might test this sufferer's Messianic claim. Had the sign come? Was nature now sympathizing with her Lord? Were these shadows the trappings of a universal woe? Was God manifesting his wrath against sin? Or was this darkness a stupendous figure of the position in which the dying Nazarene stood with respect to the deliverance of the race from sin?

Once in a Jewish synagogue I heard a rabbi read from the scroll of Isaiah a prophecy concerning the Messiah; that he was to be "wounded for our transgressions and bruised for our iniquities; that by his stripes we might be healed." It was predicted that when this Messiah came he should, bearing the world's burden of sin, go into the outer darkness in expiatory pain. Was it at this awful moment that he carried that burden into the region of the lost? Did he just then descend into hell for us?