(Christ's) penetrating look breaks the fourth wall, turning us from observers into participants, forcing a confrontation with the suffering we witness. - Author Unknown
I stop because something in the room
has already noticed me.
Not the guards.
Not the crown.
A man bruised into stillness
holding a reed
like a question.
The painting is small.
No thunder.
No angels breaking through the ceiling.
Just a tired soldier
bending at the waist
with a crooked grin -
offering a weed for a scepter
like a joke he plans to repeat later.
“Here,” his posture says.
“Your kingdom.”
Christ takes it
without flinching.
Not like a king insulted.
Like someone
who knows exactly
what a kingdom costs.
The robe hangs on Him
like a wound learning light.
The thorns do not pretend.
They press.
They stay.
Still...His face.
Not defeated.
Not accusing.
Simply there.
I have seen that look
in waiting rooms,
in late shifts,
in people who keep standing
after the reason for standing is gone.
A face that says only:
I am still here.
The soldier kneels to mock Him.
Still - he kneels.
That is where the painting opens.
That small, unintended reverence.
A body bending
even while the mouth laughs.
How often have I done the same -
bowed without knowing,
stood before something sacred
and called it ordinary
just to feel safe?
The reed trembles in His hand.
Thin.
Hollow.
Breakable.
Like the authority I trust.
Like the jokes I use
to keep from bowing.
Nothing explodes in this painting.
No one is struck down.
Mercy does not defend itself.
It only remains;
breathing,
crowned in pain,
holding a fragile scepter
as if it were enough.
I stand there
until the noise in me loosens.
Until looking becomes
something like being seen.
Before I leave
I whisper - without planning to...
Not a prayer.
Just this:
I have laughed too.
I have doubted.
I have held the reed.
And still
You look at me
as if I might yet learn
how to kneel
and mean it.
GBS jr
1993
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