Beneath the sky, a shroud of thunder’s reign,
The centurion stood, his spear in hand,
A witness to the cross where crimson stained
The earth, a king enthroned on rugged land.
The sun recoiled, its golden face grew dim,
While tempests tore the veil of heaven’s dome,
The rocks split wide, a chorus deep and grim,
As nature mourned the Son cast far from home.

His armor gleamed, though dulled by dust and dread,
A Roman forged in fire, yet now undone—
For in that gaze, where mortal blood was shed,
He saw the light of God’s eternal Son.
“Truly,” he spoke, his voice a trembling chord,
“This was the King, the Christ, the living Lord.”