Produced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net THE CENTURION'S STORY DAVID JAMES BURRELL AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY 150 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK COPYRIGHT, 1892 and 1911, By AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY THE CENTURION'S STORY I am an old man now; the burden of fourscore years is resting upon me. But the events of a certain April day in the year 783 A.U.C.--full half a century ago--are as fresh in my memory as if they had happened yesterday. At that time I was stationed with my Hundred on garrison duty at the Castle of Antonia, in Jerusalem. I had been ordered to take charge of the execution of a malefactor who had just been sentenced to death. Accordingly, on the morning of the day mentioned, I selected twelve of my men, such as were hardened to bloody deeds, and with them I proceeded to the Praetorium. All was hurry and excitement there. As it was the time of the Jewish Passover, the city was thronged with strangers. A multitude of people had assembled and were clamoring for the death of this man. On our arrival he was brought forth. He proved to be that Prophet of Nazareth whose oracular wisdom and wonder-working power had been everywhere noised abroad. I had heard much about him. He claimed to be the Messiah for whose advent the Jews had been looking from time immemorial; and his disciples believed it. They called him by such well-known Messianic titles as "Son of Man," "Son of David" and "Son of God." He spoke of himself as "the only-begotten Son of God," declaring that he had been "in the bosom of the Father before the world was," and that he was now manifest in human form to expiate the world's sin. This was regarded by the religious leaders as rank blasphemy and they clamored for his death. He was tried before the Roman court, which refused to consider the charge, inasmuch as it involved a religious question not lying within its jurisdiction; but the prisoner, being turned over to the Sanhedrin, was found worthy of death for "making himself equal with God." I remember him well as he appeared that day. From what I had heard I was prepared to see a hard-faced impostor or a fanatic with frenzy in his eyes. He was a man of middle stature, with a face of striking beauty and benignity, eyes of mingled light and warmth, and auburn hair falling over his shoulders. It was not strange that he looked pale and haggard; for he had passed through three judicial ordeals since the last sunset, besides being scourged with the _flagellum horrible_ and exposed to the rude buffeting of the midnight guard. He had been clothed in the cast-off purple of the Roman procurator and wore a derisive crown of thorns. But, as he issued from the Hall of Judgment, such was his commanding presence that the multitude was hushed and separated to make way.