The Quest of a Stranger
His heavy breathing could hardly be heard above the tumultuous
crowd. The upward climb was a difficult one; harder than any
had yet endured. Was there a purpose to all this madness? A
goal to be reached? Truth would be known, sooner or later.
In the midst of the path the stranger traveled, in spite of
the noise all around, there was quiet. Even though hatred
surrounded him as a fog, love was present as oxygen which
gives life. Riots were all around, yet there was peace.
Is it true that a trail of innocent blood was left behind?
Does evil finally triumph over good?
But what is this? The stranger has fallen. His knees are
bruised and his blood is flowing again. Is there no one
here to help an innocent stranger? Whips!! The punishment
for falling is severe. Thank goodness I'm not in his place.
Up again, he moves slowly along. Pushed and kicked, spat
upon and whipped, he struggles silently upward as the crowd
mocks and screams. How is it cruelty seems to add insult to
injury? Is it possible for a beard to be a souvenir? Still
the man refuses to curse any. Has the world gone mad?
The hill traveled by the stranger seemed never ending, yet
the end is in sight. The Legionnaires awaiting his arrival
appeared anxious and angry at the delay. Surely his quest
will be fulfilled at the top of this tortuous hill.
As he arrived at the apex, the Legionnaires ripped the robe
off his torn back. They lean over him as they drive the
spikes through his body, making him one with the wood. Why
do they treat him with such contempt? Not even one word of
protest did he speak.
As he stood suspended over all, darkness covered the land.
Yet a voice could be heard, words coming from the mouth of
the stranger, “...Forgive them...”.
Written October 1985 by Andrew J. Weiss