As a centurion soldier, it was up to me,
To get Him up, and back down from that tree.
False is the news, and wrongly accused, as friends of His deny,
Their friend, teacher, savior, preacher, afraid like Him, they’ll die.
We thrashed His back, red and black, ripping new flesh free.
Mangled whips, cracked against back and hips, brackish the future would seem.