I have found myself transfixed by this painting. The more I look, the more it gives, and the more it gives, the softer I become, and I can almost hear the man speak.
He has lost his mind.
The end is here, and while his hands grasp for prayer, his mind is no longer sure. This thing that he invested his whole life into, is no longer so safe, no longer so close by. No longer so tangible. And he needs to face the finite border of his faith.
The darkness of the prison is feebly illuminated by the intensity of the question: What lies beyond?
What have these poor hands brought to this world? More good than bad?
I can also imagine him thinking: I have denied this body my whole life, and all that is left now is this crumpled face, this beaten thing. I have denied it, and yet it is this feeble body that is the only truth left as I await the moment of meeting my God. God, in whom I have faith, which means I cannot know him. He is the unknown, and I am beginning to see its advance. I am seeing it, and it is a scary place.
Or maybe: save those who have imprisoned me, for they know no better than violence and retribution, two sledgehammers that have already set us on this wrong path. I pray that to them comes the wisdom of my lord, who is sunshine and life giver. Who sees beyond the petty interests of the one and towards the unity of the whole. Who can accept suffering because his Cause is greater and will always prevail on the grandest of scales.
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