With spiritual insight, Devasahayam asked them, “Are you truly taking me to another prison—or leading me to the house of the Lord?” The guards, blind to his deeper meaning, insisted he leave without delay.
His spirit was prepared, but his body had been worn down by hardship. His legs were shackled, and the guards forced him to walk faster, whipping and pushing him as though he were a beast. Despite their cruelty, his face was radiant, for he knew the time of his sacrifice was near.
As they ascended the rugged paths of Kattadimalai, the terrain grew treacherous. Devasahayam stumbled and collapsed. Impatient and cruel, the guards fashioned a rod from a thorny crotch tree, inserted it between his chained arms, and hoisted him onto their shoulders like a burdened animal. Blood dripped from his mouth, his muscles torn, but he bore it all in silence and surrender.
Though not crucified, the agony he endured was no less than that of Calvary. He requested a moment to pray, and it was granted. With profound devotion, he began his final prayer:
“Lord, I thank You for granting me the grace to give my life for You. I thank De Lannoy and his family, through whom I came to know Your love. I remember Buttari, who baptized me, and my godfather Gnanappirakasam Pillai. I am grateful to my wife Gnanappu for her strength and faith. Bless the people of Vadakkankulam for embracing her. I pray for the King of Travancore. I entrust to You those oppressed by caste—may they be freed in knowing You. My soul is ready. Come and receive me, O Lord. I surrender all to You.”
He then bent and kissed the cross that hung around his neck. At that very spot where his knees touched the earth, an imprint was left—preserved for generations as a sacred sign.
Turning to the guards, he said calmly, “Friends, my work is done. You may begin yours.”
The first volley struck him, each bullet carrying the weight of casteism, sectarianism, and powerism—the sins he had openly opposed.
He fell, but did not die.
Shocked by his resilience, the soldiers reloaded. Three more shots followed. One missed, but two struck his heart. Blood poured from his chest as he rolled from the rock, whispering, “Jesus, I entrust myself to You.”
In that moment, the martyr’s soul soared to the One for whom he had suffered all things.
The knee imprint on the rock, the spontaneous growth of a tree beside it, and the lacrimation of the earth are silent signs pointing to a deeper truth: a man had died for his faith, and heaven had received a saint.
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