I Knew Not the Man

I knew not the man
crowned with jagged thorn,
wrapped in bloodied linen,
whose battered body
I lifted up.

I knew not the man
whose flesh tore
upon meeting the nail,
whose bones shuddered
with each hammer's blow,
whose brow glistened
with the sweat
of a labored soul.

His name was not told to me,
nor his age,
his place of birth,
his line of work.
But it was evident
he was a criminal.
Only criminals
are crucified.

What could I care
about the man
stretched limp across the wood
his head heavy
with the weight of the crown?
I had a job to do,
a command to carry out,
six mouths to feed at home.

I knew not the man
whose eye shed no tear,
whose lips screamed no pain,
whose sagging shoulders
seemed to bear
the sins of the world.

I knew not the man.

Do I not cry out in wonder then
to discover
that the man knew me?