He stood beneath that shadowed hill, where heaven bled through dust and bone,
The thunder cracked—its solemn will—while Rome’s command was cold as stone.
He raised the spear as duty’s pawn, his eyes dimmed by the soldier’s creed,
Yet in that thrust, the veil was torn—a heart now touched by love’s true bleed.
The crimson flow and water spilled, as mercy’s river found its mark,
A blinded man’s dull sight was filled—his eyes now bathed in holy spark.
He fell beneath the quaking sky, his breath entangled in a cry,
“For surely this was God Most High,”—his spirit born, his fear to die.
But Rome grew dark in whisper’s court; their blades cut truth from every tongue,
He would not bend, nor twist retort—his creed of faith was newly sung.
They came with chains, they came with flame, to steal the voice he would not hide,
And when they carved his sacred name, the blood itself refused to die.
They took his sight, they took his tongue, yet still his witness filled the air,
Each silence louder than the drum of tyrants choking on despair.
And so began that legend’s hymn: that even bound, his speech was clear,
For those who listened heard within—the echo Christ had placed in fear.
We live the trial of Longinus still, though crowned by tech and dressed in lies,
Our hands still pierce what love would heal, our hearts still barter paradise.
But faith, when broken, shines the more—the truth survives what steel divides,
And every wound the holy bore becomes the place our hope abides.
So let them mock, defile, or maim, the tender flame will never drown,
For grace returns to light the same where men once cast their idols down.
And where the spear of Longinus thrust became the world’s most hallowed scar,
God taught the blind to see what’s just—and raised our hearts to where You are.

…

DCG