Today's Poem Inspired by Matthew 8:7
In the dust of Capernaum's narrow streets,
where fishing boats lie beached like weary pilgrims
and the sea whispers secrets to the shore,
a Roman centurion steps forward, armored in humility,
his voice steady yet threaded with urgent plea.
Not for himself he asks, but for the servant who lies
paralyzed in shadows, tormented by unseen chains,
a body once obedient now captive to pain's cruel decree.
Jesus turns, eyes meeting eyes across the divide—
occupier and occupied, power and the powerless—
and in that gaze the world holds its breath.
No hesitation marks the Master's reply,
no calculation of worth or lineage or law.
Simply, clearly, as dawn breaks the night:
"I will come and heal him."
Those words fall like rain on parched earth,
carrying the weight of eternity in their quiet cadence.
"I will come"—not a distant decree from marble halls,
not a command shouted across empires,
but a promise of nearness, of footsteps on the threshold,
of divine feet willing to tread Gentile floors.
The One who shaped galaxies with a syllable
offers to enter a single humble dwelling,
to stand beside a suffering slave,
to bridge with His presence the chasm between heaven and hurt.
Yet the centurion bows deeper still,
his soldier's pride yielding to a greater authority.
"Lord, I am not worthy that You should come under my roof,"
he says, knowing the law's shadow, the ritual uncleanliness
that contact might imply.
"But only say the word, and my servant will be healed."
In his mind flash images of command:
a gesture to one soldier—"Go"—and the man departs;
a nod to another—"Come"—and he arrives;
a charge to the lowest—"Do this"—and it is done.
So he sees in Jesus a sovereignty vaster than Rome's legions,
an authority that speaks to fevers and fractures
and they obey without question or delay.
Marvel rises in the heart of the Son of Man.
He turns to the crowd, to those who follow in wonder,
and declares what no prophet had foreseen:
"Truly, I tell you, with no one in Israel have I found such faith."
Here, in the unexpected soil of a foreign heart,
grows a trust so profound it astonishes the Author of faith.
Not in temple courts or among the learned scribes,
but on the edge of empire, in the voice of a Gentile soldier,
faith blooms like a desert flower after long drought.
And the word is spoken—not a journey taken,
not hands laid upon trembling flesh,
but a single utterance sent forth like light:
"Go; let it be done for you as you have believed."
At that very hour the servant rises,
limbs released from their prison,
breath steady, pain scattered like mist before sunrise.
The healing travels invisible roads,
faster than any courier, swifter than Roman roads,
carried on the wings of divine will and human trust.
O mystery of mercy, that the Creator stoops
to affirm the worth of the overlooked,
to heal not only bodies but the walls between peoples.
In this moment the kingdom unfolds its borders,
east and west invited to the table of Abraham,
while some who claim the inheritance stand outside.
The centurion returns to his post,
his servant restored, his own soul anchored
in the certainty that heaven hears the cry of the lowly.
And still the promise echoes through centuries:
"I will come and heal him."
Not always in the form we envision,
not always with immediate footsteps at the door,
but always with the power of the Word made flesh,
always with the intent to restore what is broken.
In hospitals where machines hum their vigil,
in hearts cracked by grief's unrelenting weight,
in nations torn by strife and shadowed fear,
the same voice speaks across the distance:
I will come.
Only believe, and let it be done as you have trusted.
For the One who said it then says it now,
crossing every boundary, entering every silence,
healing with a word that never fails,
drawing near in ways unseen yet deeply felt,
until all creation, like that servant long ago,
rises whole in the hour of His sovereign grace.
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