Jesus was soft edges and sharp angles, hard lines with blunt corners, sharp as a tack and unafraid in every respect but open, an open book in every way, gentle as anyone he'd ever known, care evident in everything he did, clear in everything he touched.
He was the color blue, soft and reassuring, comforting in its stillness. Peaceful, tranquil, constant. He was the sky and the sea, he was calm and clear but he could flip 180°, could become as unrelenting as a hurricane, as unapologetic as a tsunami, chaos left in his wake but with a promise to rebuild, to restore as soon as it cleared.
Jesus was an angel, as hard and as cruel and as callous and as harsh as something from up in heaven, because his angels weren't feathery wings and golden halos; no, they were righteous fury and justice for all. They were black or white, right or wrong, unequivocal in their judgement.
He was the man you wanted on your side because on your side he would fight tooth and nail, he would give you his all, he would lay down his life to make sure you kept yours. He was a sight for sore eyes after the groaning cleared and the dust settled, blood staining his body from head to toe, all leather bound five feet and eight inches of him.
He was the man you never wanted to be on the opposite end of for those very reasons, because when he fixed you with his eyes like you were the shit on the bottom of his boot, with blood mingling with sweat running down his forehead and into his eyes, when he flexed his fingers and reworked his grip on the knives in his hands with a grin in his eyes, it was clear you died the second you laid eyes on him.
He was soft eyes and a softer smile underneath leathery skin and shrewd expressions. He was calloused hands cradling a sleeping infant and a hoarse voice crooning lullabies under his breath.
He was a man doing what he needed to do, killing who needed to be killed, ready to do whatever it took for his people, to keep them safe, to keep them protected. He was a man who came back to the tiny, musty bedroom he called home and curled up as small as he could because, at the end of the day, he was only one man and he wasn't born to kill or be killed, but he did it anyway because no one else would.