Six Hours One Friday (Pack Of 25)

A soldier stood upon a rocky hill in Judea, fulfilling his duty that day as he had hundreds of other times. His dreadful task was to supervise the deaths of pickpockets and rebels of society on a hill called ?The Place of a Skull.? He had been there before, but this day was different. The centurion was uneasy. He had been since noon. It wasn?t the deaths that troubled him. He was no stranger to finality. Over the years he?d grown callous to the screams. He?d mastered the art of numbing his heart. But this crucifixion plagued him. The day began as had a hundred others. It was bad enough to be in Judea, but even worse to spend hot afternoons on a rocky hill supervising the death of troublemakers. Half the crowd taunted, half cried. The soldiers complained. The priests bossed. It was a thankless job in a strange land. He was ready for the day to be over before it began. But he was curious at the attention given to one of the crucified. He looked worse than the others. His face was lumpy and bruised. His back arched slightly and his eyes faced downward. The centurion smiled at the sign above him on the cross: ?This is Jesus, the King of the Jews.?1 The condemned looked like anything but a king. As the hours wore on, the centurion found himself looking more and more at the center cross. He didn?t understand the man?s silence. He didn?t understand his kindness. But most of all, he was perplexed by the da

Lucado, Max