From the artist:

How did he know?

Before he committed his crime, had he heard? Had he heard of the One who healed and loved and came to turn the world upside down? Or was it during the hike to Calvary hill, the beams of his cross digging deep into his flesh, that he saw the crowds swell for the One before him and he knew, for the first time, the weight of systemic injustice?

Or was it while they nailed them in, the piercing hammer pounding his own body to contort and heave, that he saw his neighbor in perfect silence, hanging as if weightless in the air?
Or was it when he heard, “Forgive them, Father,” the words pouring down like a warm bath?

Or was it when the other mocked him, blood and hate and profane humanity spewing from his mouth, that the contrast made the divine palpable and quite easy to perceive?

How did he know that the One dying alongside him was blameless? How did he know he was the Christ?

Regardless of how, he was convinced of it the way death makes all things clear. So he told the truth—about his own brokenness and the suffering Savior beside him—opening himself to redemption, pointing to the One who might bestow it.

—Lisle Gwynn Garrity