https://theaccidentalpoetdc.com/

The Accidental Poet, Washington D.C., DC (2026)

04/20/2026

KENSINGTON, MARYLAND

I saw under the sun
buttercup, violet, white,
tangerine, beet, lavender,
and pomegranate stripes
litter a sea of green

a wild-child
riot
of color.

One stretches tallest,
its golden petals straining upward
toward the sun
like a small child toward her mother’s apron—

Mama, Mama, Mama!
Pick me! Pick me!

Cool drops of water
freckle her face
from the nearby fountain.

Mother Sun
smiles down at her child
then caresses her cheeks
with her soft, yellow beams
as the child opens
to receive
her embrace.

The whole field sways
in unison
when a light breeze dips down
from the stand of poplar trees,
fans the field for a moment,
then continues on
toward the next field,
woods,
or garden.

Bumble bees,
legs caked in yellow powder,

fly,
alight,
fly,
alight.

Each flower opens wide
in greeting.

Up high, a red-tailed hawk
glides

r
o
u
n
d
and
r
o
u
n
d

wings wide and still,
beneath a bridal veil of cirrus clouds

under the midday sun.

~ Kim Skimmons
4/20/2026

Photo: K. Skimmons, 4/16/2026, Kensington, Maryland

04/09/2026

- Thank you for making my experimental poetry series a success beyond anything I'd imagined possible.

Poetry is hardly a trending thing on social media, especially long-form poetry. Social media algorithms reward short and punchy, not long, slow, and simmering.

21,000 reactions, 500 comments, and 300 shares: That's all you. And for that I thank you.

Now I will be giving my creative writing brain a much-needed rest as it is running on fumes, trading my keyboard for hiking boots, Oakleys, three trail-loving dogs who've missed my attention, and lots of dirt, trees, streams, and wildflowers.🌸🌼

Thank you all for traveling the digital trails with me.

Kim Skimmons

04/06/2026

Stand in Wonder Act VI: Monday — Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow
The Passion Story in Six Acts

I too know unbelief
and its sister, longing.

Whose small child within doesn’t sometimes wish
that Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy,
or this kind-of-cool guy named Jesus
were the real thing?

Sure would lighten the load
of adulting.

—

I too know the brief twinge of envy
when I see people who do believe in this Jesus
and possess such peace, steadiness, certainty,
and measured acceptance of life.
That would be nice.

I too know that’s not for me.

—

One early June afternoon in 2017
I sat alone
on a beach in Ocean City.
Happy, mostly.

I turned toward the sun, closed my eyes,
and thought about… nothing really
when a voice above and behind me said,
and I quote,
“You’ve been gone a long time.
It’s time to come home.”

I opened my eyes
to no one.

But I suddenly knew
what no book or sermon could teach me.

I knew.

In seven months,
seven painful months,
my carefully curated worldview—
every question, every objection I had—
lay in rubbled ruins
at the foot
of the cross.

Yes, that cross.

No one
was as shocked
as I was.

Nine years and a lifetime later,
I still stand
in wonder.

by Kim Skimmons, 4/6/2026

—AFTERWORD—
That’s why the Easter story matters and why
poets far greater than I write poems about it
and great painters paint ceilings in architects’ great cathedrals in great cities all over the world for his glory
and artisans capture scenes in stained glass and cut sculptures from marble and granite
and great composers like Handl, Mozart, and Bach couldn’t compose enough labors of love
and why intellectual giants like
Dostoyevsky, Shakespeare, Dante,
Lewis, Milton, Hemingway, and Tolkien,
and more recently the longing souls of
Flannery O’Connor, the Man in Black, and U2
are consumed by its meaning
and cannot seem to not write about it
one way or another.

It’s a story too big to ignore.

One day, we don’t know when,
the whole of humanity who ever lived
will lay down their crowns at his feet
and no longer
stand in wonder.

We will know.

—ABOUT THE ART—
“Prodigal Daughter” by Charlie Mackesy, 2015. Used by permission.

Boy, do I feel this one. When you know, you know.

Analysis:

Charlie Mackesy’s “The Prodigal Daughter” is rendered in ink and watercolor with an expressive looseness that allows form to dissolve into gesture. In this version, fluid washes and visible drips disrupt the otherwise simple composition, introducing a sense of emotional overflow and instability. The figures—defined by minimal line and warm tonal contrast—are less anatomically precise than relationally clear, their embrace forming the structural center of the image while the surrounding space remains open, unanchored, and unresolved.

Here, the parable is not presented as a tidy moment of return but as an encounter shaped by the weight of what has come before. The daughter leans in with urgency, her posture suggesting exhaustion as much as relief; the father’s hold is steady, unqualified, and immediate. The dripping paint functions almost as a visual residue of the journey, suggesting loss, disorder, or the erosion of self, while the embrace itself interrupts that downward movement. The absence of narrative detail heightens the focus on this single exchange: not explanation, not apology, but reception.

Within a Lenten framework, the work speaks to reconciliation not as a clean resolution but as a moment that arrives while the marks of exile are still visible. Grace, in this rendering, does not erase what has happened; it meets the returning figure within it. The image thus offers a quiet but profound inversion: restoration begins not after one is made whole, but precisely at the point where one is not.

Links:
Charlie Mackesy website: https://www.charliemackesy.com/

Do yourself a favor and buy about 10 copies of Charlie's book "The Boy, the Mole, the Fox and the Horse"—one for yourself for those days when you're feeling a bit lost and 9 at the ready to give away when a dear friend needs it. You'll be glad you did. https://a.co/d/0dWiQd1Q

—LOOKING AHEAD—

This concludes the Stand In Wonder poem series. I hope you've found it worth your time.

I've done my best to make these events come alive, to breathe fresh life into them with different perspectives, and to help you *feel* them as if you were there—really there—and not just reading about them.

I don't know if I have fully succeeded in that endeavor, but I sure hope so.

THANK YOU for taking this journey with me.

May the Lord bless you and keep you
Make His face shine upon you
and be gracious to you
The Lord turn His face toward you
And give you peace

xoxo <

—MODERATOR NOTE—
This page is a curated space for reflection and art. Comments that are disrespectful, off-topic, divisive, or detract from the narrative will be removed to maintain the sanctuary of this series for all readers.

04/05/2026

Stand in Wonder Act V: Sunday — The Gardener
The Passion Story in Six Acts

Dawn.
The third day.

Silhouettes sprint across the open fields
through the tall grass blanketed with an early morning mist,
glass bottles and clay jars in hand,
their dresses and scarves billowing behind.

Mary, the first to arrive, leans on a tree gasping
and sets her things down while she waits for the others to catch up.
Hurry!
Yesterday was never-ending. The waiting…
unable to do anything—except keep the Sabbath
and weep.

—

I am worn out from sobbing.
I flooded my bed with weeping, drenched it with my tears.
My vision is blurred by grief.

Indeed.
And where is God now?
Does he not hear us weep?

Today, though, is a new day
and us women must do what women do
in such times as these.
When grief abounds
we ensure the dead are properly cared for
to be properly received.

Imma and I worked all night
preparing the oils and spices we need
to properly anoint our Lord, Jesus.

I still cannot believe it.

Just Thursday… no, don’t go there now.
Plenty of time to grieve, later, with Andrew and James and Peter—
if we can find them, wherever they’re hiding.
But now, here come Mary, Salome,
and Joanna.

Joanna… what would we have done without Joanna?
Joanna… wealthy, comfortable, socially respectable.
Joanna… who had access to power, to Herod!
Joanna… who gave all of that away
to finance, without shame or apology,
the needs of our Lord’s ministry.
Joanna… whose station and position did not permit her to travel with him
but was ever-present in her giving
that kept all of us fed and able to support his mission.
Joanna.

And now, right now, here she is,
in person,
running through the fields like a common woman
to do what she can to serve him still,
even if only with fragrant spices and oil.

—

Together, we four round the corner
prepared to explain to the Roman soldiers
why we were there and what was our business
but instead, we are met
with silence.

No guards. No sounds.

“Look!” said Salome.
“The tomb. The stone! Moved. Open. How?”

What? Oh no! This can’t be!
A shock ran through me.
I dropped my oils and lamp
and I ran back toward town
to find Peter and John.

“Come with me! Something is terribly wrong!
Our Lord’s tomb is wide open and no one’s around.
Come quickly!”

The men took off running
full speed, far faster than me.

I passed by the other three women
skipping and dancing!
What’s wrong with them?
Why are they so happy?
No time to stop, must keep going.

Now here comes John.
And Peter
running straight past me
still at full speed
all confusion and worry!

“What’s going on???”

They ignore me.

I arrive back at the tomb,
all alone now.

I pick up my dropped spice and lean inside
and see that his tomb
is empty.

I suck in my breath. This can’t be.
No wonder Peter looked scared to death.
I find myself weeping, again, uncontrollably.
If only…

If only we’d attended to him yesterday
If only it wasn’t the Sabbath.
If only they hadn’t crucified my Lord to begin with!
If only…

I’m a mess.

I lean in a bit more and crane my neck.
It makes no sense.
His burial clothes are there at either end of the bed,
folded so neatly,
and… wait… two figures in white sitting quietly…
My swollen eyes must be seeing things.

Where is he?!

He’s missing.

Suddenly, a voice behind me speaks
nearly scaring me out of my wits.
I turn to see a man who asks me whom do I seek,
and why am I sobbing?

Shocked back to reality, I say:

Sir as the gardener surely you saw who took away my Lord? He was placed here on Friday and now he is gone and his clothes are still there and there’s angels in there but he’s not. I’ve come to anoint him to finish the job that was rushed. It was rushed because he died too close to the start of the Sabbath and Joseph and John and and and th- th- that Pharisee did the best that they could to be proper but it wasn’t enough so I’ve come to make it all right but he’s nowhere to be found—he’s gone! I need to find him, sir, I must! Sir, tell me you know where they took him! I’m losing my mind, I’m distraught, I can’t bear to think he is lost!...”

He cut me off:

“Mary.”

I stopped.
My jaw dropped.
I twisted my face unsure and trying to process my name.
For the first time, I looked at his face.
His face, his face, his face.
The voice. The soft accent. Those eyes.
Oh, those eyes.
Soft yet piercing.
They see right through me.
Now just as then, three years ago when the first time he called me
Mary.

Here I am.

“Rabboni!”

Mary fell to her knees
in breathless wonder.

by Kim Skimmons, 4/5/2026

—AFTERWORD 1—
In Mary’s distress, she makes reference to the three men who had hastily prepared Jesus’ body for burial:

1. John – the only one of the disciples to have remained at the cross during the crucifixion while all the others ran to hide, fearing they could be next.
2. Joseph of Arimathea – the rich man who donated his unused tomb for Jesus and who got permission from Pilate to remove Jesus’ body from the cross and bury him before the start of the Sabbath at sundown — why they were rushed in their preparations.

And the most interesting one of the three:

3. Nicodemus – the Pharisee who believed. The member of the Sanhedrin who sat silently at the secret meeting in Act I when Jesus was condemned. The one who pushed back only mildly at the Sanhedrin's railroading of Jesus during the trials. And there he was, on Friday, hurriedly helping bury the one who directly told him, way back in the beginning, “For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.”

On Friday, he showed up with seventy-five pounds of spices, a king's burial—the last act of contrition of a man who believed but couldn't, or wouldn’t, say so publicly.

Confused then, but fully understanding Jesus’ words now: “God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him … Light has come into the world, but people loved darkness instead of light … Whoever lives by the truth comes into the light, so that it may be seen plainly that what they have done has been done in the sight of God.”

—AFTERWORD 2—
A WOMAN, unnamed at the well, was the first person Jesus revealed his true Messiah identity to.

A WOMAN, Mary, was chosen to be the first to hear the news of Jesus's resurrection. A woman. In a time when women were second-class citizens at best.

A WOMAN, Mary, was the first to see the risen Christ. A woman.

—

Read Mary's beautiful story yourself, as recorded by John. I hope I have done it justice:

11 Now Mary stood outside the tomb crying. As she wept, she bent over to look into the tomb 12 and saw two angels in white, seated where Jesus’ body had been, one at the head and the other at the foot.

13 They asked her, “Woman, why are you crying?”

“They have taken my Lord away,” she said, “and I don’t know where they have put him.” 14 At this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not realize that it was Jesus.

15 He asked her, “Woman, why are you crying? Who is it you are looking for?”

Thinking he was the gardener, she said, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will get him.”

16 Jesus said to her, “Mary.”

She turned toward him and cried out in Aramaic, “Rabboni!” (which means “Teacher”).

John 20:11-16

—ABOUT THE ART—
“Touch Me Not” (Noli me tangere) by James Tissot, 1886–1894

James Tissot’s Touch Me Not (Noli me tangere) presents the encounter between Mary Magdalene and the risen Christ with a careful attention to naturalistic detail and spatial clarity. Executed in opaque watercolor over graphite, the work reflects Tissot’s broader effort to situate Gospel scenes within a convincingly observed physical world. The garden setting is rendered with botanical specificity, while the figures are composed with restrained gesture: Mary kneels in a posture of recognition and longing, and Christ, poised yet withdrawn, extends a subtle, restraining motion that defines the moment’s emotional and theological tension.

The painting captures the instant in which grief gives way to recognition, yet not to possession. Mary’s impulse is to reach—to hold, to reclaim—but Christ’s words, “Do not cling to me,” introduce a necessary distance. This is not a rejection, but a transformation of relationship: the physical presence she seeks is no longer the form in which he will remain. Tissot renders this shift with quiet precision, emphasizing the space between the figures as the locus of meaning, where love persists even as it is reoriented toward something less tangible and more enduring.

“Noli me tangere” embodies the threshold of awakening—where absence is overturned, yet not fully resolved into comprehension. The scene invites contemplation of a faith that emerges not from grasping, but from recognition and release. In this way, the painting aligns with the spiritual movement from loss to encounter, suggesting that the risen Christ is known not through possession, but through a presence that calls to be seen, heard, and ultimately trusted.

—LOOKING AHEAD—

The final act, Act VI, will drop tomorrow, Monday.

Click the "Follow" button near the top of my page to receive notifications when the next in this series is published.

—MODERATOR NOTE—
This page is a curated space for reflection and art. Comments that are disrespectful, off-topic, divisive, or detract from the narrative will be removed to maintain the sanctuary of this series for all readers.

04/04/2026

Stand in Wonder Act IV: Quiet Saturday
The Passion Story in Six Acts

She never saw it coming.

The thrills, the highs,
the village crowds who came from miles
and stayed for days,
the laughter and songs
and quiet talk under the stars til the campfire faded
when nighttime blessedly fell
and his handful unwound

masked the low rumbling

of the massive, masoned stones
high upon the mount
loosening
then slowly
letting
go…
One…
another…
then all together
down

Swift, violent, deafening.

Final.

—

Darkness. Void.

I lie crushed
by their weight

I am the woman at the

b
o
tt
o
m

of the well.

I cry, but nobody hears me
The walls are too tall
and slick
and I am alone,
small and
unseen
again.

Blindly, I touch the damp earth beneath me
and find pieces

of me

Shattered
jagged
pieces
of me.

I scraped them into a pile
thinking I’m going to need these somehow
but there are so
many.

I feel my body to see if anything is left of me
I don’t know
My hand seems to slip between my ribs
I am empty.

He
gave me my identity.
He
called me by name.
He
claimed me.

I try to speak
but words float in front of me
just out of reach.
If only I could grab one please!

Jesus…
what’s wrong with me…

Raspy, growling

“welcome back, darling”
“yes, we’ve missed you, my sweet”
“you didn’t think we’d be gone forever, did you now?”

Nooooo!!!

“Mary! Mary! Wake Up!!”

“Imma!” Breathless, sweating. “I’m sorry, Imma, I just…”

“Shhh, child. I know.”

—

A heartbeat away, the angels
quietly sang

and bowed low

in awesome wonder.

by Kim Skimmons, 4/4/2026

—AFTERWORD—
https://youtu.be/UZYr_vHXydk

I made this video a few years ago when my daughter was going through a rough period. It's a beautiful piece and contains a stream of scriptures that remind us of who we are, that we are not forgotten, and we matter.

I can imagine that Jesus’s disciples, including or perhaps especially Mary Magdalene, were experiencing many of these same feelings and perhaps they were ruminating on the same scriptures I’ve included here from the old testament, which is most of them. They certainly would have known them. The others, they would have heard directly from Jesus’s own mouth.

I wonder if they found consolation in them or if they were just emotionally numb on that particular Saturday. Probably the latter, I’m guessing. And this would have continued for some time as grief does, except… for Sunday.

“Weeping may last through the night, but joy comes in the morning.” Psalm 30:5

“He will give a crown of beauty for ashes, joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.” Psalm 61:3

WISHING YOU ALL A QUIET, CONTEMPLATIVE, NATURE-FILLED SATURDAY.

P.S. And here’s some nice, contemplative music to go along with the mood.

Music “Quiet Saturday Night” by Nohone:
• Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/5Au9aY0YffotN0F8ObyDZd?si=85624c545de14bd2
• Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/us/album/quiet-saturday-night/1503056189?i=1503056190

—ABOUT THE ART—
“Mary Magdalene” by Alfonse Borysewicz, 2007, oil and wax on linen

Alfonse Borysewicz’s Mary Magdalene (2007) employs oil and wax on linen to produce a materially dense, tactile surface in which layers of pigment appear both built and eroded over time. The integration of wax introduces a subdued luminosity and a palpable physical weight, allowing the image to hover between opacity and translucence.

Rather than presenting a clearly resolved figure, Borysewicz situates the work at the threshold between abstraction and figuration, where forms emerge only partially from a field marked by accumulation, revision, and concealment.

Read in the context of Holy Saturday, the day of suspended time between crucifixion and resurrection, the painting resonates as an evocation of grief held in stillness.

Mary Magdalene is not depicted in action or recognition, but in a state of interior endurance, where loss has not yet yielded to understanding. The obscured and fragmented visual language suggests a consciousness turned inward, grappling with absence, memory, and the disorientation that follows trauma. Narrative clarity is withheld, mirroring the uncertainty of that intervening day, when meaning remains inaccessible and hope unconfirmed.

Through its material and compositional restraint, Mary Magdalene intimates a theology of waiting—of presence experienced through apparent absence. The density of the surface, shaped by repeated layering and reworking, evokes the burden of grief as well as the persistence required to bear it.

In this way, the painting aligns with the contemplative character of Holy Saturday, offering not resolution but a quiet, sustained encounter with sorrow poised on the threshold of transformation.

Links:

Alfonse Borysewicz: http://alfonseborysewicz.com/

Also, please check out his just-released book:

“Painting Prayer: Why Faith Needs Art - and Art Needs Faith”

a meditation on the relationship between faith and the arts. Mr. Borysewicz explores the complex relationship between art’s push against boundaries and the church’s respect for the boundedness of faith, tradition, and theology.

https://orbisbooks.com/products/painting-prayer-why-faith-needs-art-and-art-needs-faith?srsltid=AfmBOoqfWvd3KcX5bJwBJS3e1B8I03DifUfb7uJ9-lU8MTCOPcL3gXJJ

—LOOKING AHEAD—

Act V will drop tomorrow, Sunday.

Click the "Follow" button near the top of my page to receive notifications when the next in this series is published.

—MODERATOR NOTE—
This page is a curated space for reflection and art. Comments that are disrespectful, off-topic, divisive, or detract from the narrative will be removed to maintain the sanctuary of this series for all readers.

04/03/2026

Stand in Wonder Act III - Friday
The Passion Story in Six Acts

Judea.
Passover.

Streets overflow with celebrants
Our guard units are on high alert
and we work ‘round-the-clock shifts
to quell pockets of unrest.

Dawn.
Inside the Praetorium.

The four of us
lean in columned doorways
and pace the marble halls
to stave off sleep
as our three-hour watch winds down.
Just a few more minutes until we’re relieved.
I begin to dream…
of shuffling feet,
gritty sandals on slate…

Gaius nudges me awake
and gestures with his head
to outside the wrought-iron gate.
I rub my eyes
and sigh
at the sight
of an official-looking mob approaching
with two temple guards and a prisoner
who, thankfully, is not resisting, just quiet.

A few more minutes
and this would be the job of the next unit.

Now we need to wake the Prefect.

—

I drew the short stick.

“Domine, sorry to wake you but
some Jewish officials are here to see you
on urgent business.
They say it can’t wait.
They insist.”

—

Pilate goes out.
Pilate comes in,
bringing the prisoner with him.

The interrogation begins
(Dominus is so good at this):

“They say you claim to be the king of the Jews.
Are you as you are accused?”

“So say you.
I simply say I came to bear witness
to the truth.”

“Truth?! What is… truth?”
The Prefect goes out.

Gaius, guarding the door, heard Dominus say
he finds the man innocent, now go away.
The Jews suggest he’s risking his own head
if Rome gets whiff of a new king in his midst.

The Prefect comes in
looks at the man,
then washes his hands.

—

Noon. The sixth hour.
Side of the busy road
outside the great city’s wall.

Our fresh four-man team
nailed the prisoner’s wrists and feet
to the rough-sawn beams—
strangely, he didn’t even scream.
They always scream.

We lifted it high.

The rowdy crowd cheered
and jeered
and spat.

Who was this man,
that they were so passionate?
Weird.

As was our custom,
we drew lots for his clothes,
a tunic and a robe—
Gaius won—
then we took up our posts to guard him,
lest any family or friend try to save him
before his breath was gone.

We hadn’t even settled in
when suddenly,
someone blew out the sun

and the sky turned to night.

Full dark.
No stars.

The metal studs on our belt flaps clatter
as we shift our stance,
stiffen our backs,
our right hands reflexively grip the hilts
of our gladius swords in their scabbards
and our left hands our shields,
as the crowd grows restless.

—

Hour Nine, 3 PM
Still dark,
three hours gone by.

Our relief crew is coming soon,
thank gods.
I see my wife pass by with a basket of fresh food
to prepare for dinner.
She smiles. I nod.
My belly growls.

Where are those fresh guards,
they should be here by now.

Above us, I hear a scuffle
and look up.
Those three are chattering, arguing…
about what?? Gods only know what possesses
men near death.
We see it all the time,
and we know the signs.
It won’t be long now, I see—
he’s struggling, he can’t exhale his breath.
Hurry, please.

Where are those fresh men?
I scan the horizon again.

The middle prisoner groans and lifts his head,
looks to the sky and cries,
“Father, forgive them.
They know not why.”

Then the man on the cross above us
died.

—

Silence.
Eerie silence.
All movement ceased.
We braced ourselves for… what?
We’ve seen everything, but this…

No birds singing.
No cicadas humming.
No wind sweeping the grasses
or blowing the dust up
from this broad street leading into the city.

The only sound
is the quiet weeping
of the two women still at his feet.

Who was this man?

And where is our relief? They’re late!

The air is crackling; the hair on my neck
is standing on end.
I just want to go home to my wife.

One thing left:
Everyone held their breath
as I stepped out of formation,
hoisted my javelin and brutally stabbed him
to ensure he was dead.

This was our custom.

Drops of blood and water
fell in slow-motion.
The younger woman, Mary Magdalene,
(I knew her name from seeing her around town and in the market)
lunged and caught them in her tear bottle.
She wept, deep guttural cries.

I felt a lump in my throat
as I watched the sight of this distraught woman
who so resembled my own wife.

The other guys were watching me closely.
I quickly retracted my almost-tear before they could see
what moved me.

Then…

the dark clouds rumbled, cracked, and thundered—
so loud, like the voice of a god!
We pressed our leather helmets to our ears
but could not not hear it.

And the whole earth quaked.
Violent, deafening rips and shredding
as if the anguished earth itself were crying out in pain
from its ripped-open depths
from which Hades’ Furies were now flying.

Time
froze.

The crowd froze too,
then some ran, some screamed,
some prayed.

Again we braced,
not knowing what else to do but stay in place
as soldiers do.

I could see the ground from miles away undulate—
the grassy fields looking every bit like the surface
of an angry sea,
forming earthen waves rushing
not past us but toward us
from every direction
as the wind howled and whipped around us.

The three crosses swayed.

Instinctively, defensively
our well-trained four-man team,
shoulder-to-shoulder and back-to-back beneath the cross
circled tightly,
raised our shields,
and dropped to a knee,
our belts’ bronze studs clanking
against our shin guards.

But we saw not the riot we braced for
but all the people ‘round us

falling prostrate in waves
before us

no

before his cross above us.

In bewildered confusion, I heard Gaius cry out,
“What have we done?!
Could it be…?
Surely this man was the Son of God!
My God, what have we done!”

And the soldiers stood in fearful wonder.

by Kim Skimmons, 4/3/2026

—AFTERWORD—
Good Friday. Dirty politics is nothing new. If you want good political theatre, read John chapters 18 & 19 and/or Matthew 26 & 27 — they’re not long. Links at the bottom.

This story has all the elements worthy of a Shakespearean political thriller: Lies. Backstabbing. Double dealing. Scheming. Conflicted characters. Manipulated mobs. Razor’s-edge tension. Guilty consciences. Violence. Su***de. Death. Injustice. It’s all there.

This was a classic case of both ends against the middle: The Jewish religious leaders on one end, Rome on the other, Jesus in the middle.

The Jews need Jesus gone because he is disrupting their power base, but they don’t have the authority to execute people, so they need to convince the Roman governor, Pontius Pilate, to do their dirty work for them.

So they plot, scheme, and twist to find a thread to pull that convinces Pilate that this Jesus, innocent or not, is a problem for him as well. Add a little orchestrated social unrest, provide a nifty prisoner-swap loophole, and voilà,

Pilate literally washes his hands and does their bidding, presenting the humiliated “king” to the crazed crowd, whipped and beaten to within an inch of his life, wearing a “royal” purple robe and a “crown” made of thorns. “Ecce homo” (Behold, the man!) declared the mocking Pilate.

Jesus hung on the cross from around 9 AM to noon. All his disciples except for John and Mary Magdalene and his mother Mary had scattered in fear for their own lives (i.e., guilt by association).

Then at noon, the sky turned dark as night, the earth quaked, and humanity succeeded in killing God.

For now.

—
John 18 & 19: https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=john%2018-19&version=NIV
Matthew 26 & 27: https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=matthew%2026-27&version=NIV

—ABOUT THE ART—
“Christ Crucified between the Two Thieves: The Three Crosses" by Rembrandt van Rijn, 1653

There really is no other depiction that even comes close, in my opinion. This choice was a slam dunk.

This masterpiece is renowned for its dramatic use of light and shadow, capturing the moment of Christ's death.

The Three Crosses is a 1653 print in etching and drypoint by the Dutch artist Rembrandt van Rijn, which depicts the crucifixion of Jesus Christ. Most of his prints are mainly in etching and this one is a drypoint with burin adjustments from the third state onwards. It is considered "one of the most dynamic prints ever made."

The subject is Jesus Christ on the cross, flanked by the two thieves who were crucified with him, and the Virgin Mary, mother of Jesus, weeping and supported by the Evangelist. Roman soldiers on horseback, along with grieving citizens, surround the crosses. A beam of light, representing God's light from heaven, pierces the darkened sky to envelop the crucified figure of Christ.

The print is noted for its especially intricate iconography, and may represent the exact moment of Christ's death. According to Paul Crenshaw of the Kemper Art Museum, Rembrandt was inspired by the text from Matthew 27:46-54 when Christ cried out, "My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken Me?" Rembrandt drew heavily on biblical sources in his work, as well as being influenced by other Baroque contemporaries. This is one of over 300 Bible-inspired works Rembrandt created.

Source: Adapted from https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Three_Crosses

—LOOKING AHEAD—

Act IV will drop tomorrow, Saturday.

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—MODERATOR NOTE—
This page is a curated space for reflection and art. Comments that are disrespectful, off-topic, divisive, or detract from the narrative will be removed to maintain the sanctuary of this series for all readers.

The Accidental Poet

04/20/2026

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