He stumbles into my courtyard. His hands tightly bound at the wrists in leather straps. His hair is an entangled mess of blood and sweat, yet there seems to be no scratch or cut on his face. I wonder wonder whose blood that is, or where it came from. His knees are buckling with exhaustion. His eyelids are heavy…, yet somehow, he manages to keep his footing. He stands before me.
The voices behind him scream for his blood. “Crucify him!” They want him dead. Dead on a cross. Common sense and my political advisers tell me I should just let the crowd have its way; that they must be justified in their unanimous verdict. But the eyes of the accused man catch mine… and I begin to study this captive.
His looks are haggard, those of a drifter, a wanderer. His frame outlines the features of an outcast. His sandals spell the poverty of a pauper. Everything about his form and appearance screams suspicion and guilt, everything… but his eyes! Continue reading The Truth! Do You Know Him?