The Thief

I heard his whispered prayers

That no one else could hear.

He turned to look at me –

His eyes were bright and clear.

We felt our painful breathing

Together as we hung,

And knowing guilt, I knew he died

For things he had not done.

When he had disappointed them,

Refused to be their King,

They thought his death would wipe away

Their foolish reckoning.

Somehow as we hung there,

His crown shone bright to me,

And I was glad I had been brought

To hang upon that tree.

To share his death, to know a little

Of his kingly pain,

To understand, as no one did,

The land where he would reign.

Our words were brief, our breath was short,

But I, his honored guest,

Would be the first to follow him

Into our heavenly rest.

I was called to be there,

In shame and agony,

But glad I am, and safe I rest,

Since Jesus died with me.

“Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”

“I tell you the truth, today you will be with me in Paradise.”

Sept. 20, 2010

For Cheryl, whose conversation prompted this poem.