On the Passion of Our Lord
Page One
I
Meditation on Christ's
Passion
When they nailed you to the cross,
and hung you up to die the slow death
reserved for slaves and foreign traitors,
gradual suffocation
in hot, aching, painful breaths,
did our evil make the pain that much harder?
Did our lack of mercy and love
echo down the centuries like a pressing weight
making your sacrifice all the more painful?
And yet, still you managed to love us,
and gave us all you had left,
your mother,
your compassion,
your heart's blood.
When you
prayed in the garden, Lord,
and the heaviness pressed all around you,
as the full moon's light peaked through the olive trees,
and your apostles snored in the shadows,
and you sweated blood in the depths of your grief,
how heavy did today weigh on your shoulders,
with a war-torn world,
mad with bloodlust,
despising your peace,
hot with hatred and selfish fulfilment
sometimes done in the name of God,
or done in the name of self,
careless with all you have taught?
When they tied you to the pillar, Lord,
and scourged you in the Roman way,
a beating so severe that it alone could take a life,
as the weights at the ends of the whips,
and the heavy slap of the leather tore your flesh,
did you see the babies ripped for profit,
the innocents blown up to make a political statement,
the slaughtered millions killed
because they belonged to the wrong class,
or bloodline,
or culture
or faith
or country?
Which gave you the most pain,
the cruel leather,
or the knowlege how we would reject you?
When you walked that long walk
with the heavy crossbeam tied to your hands
as they paraded you and the others
to the Place of the Skull
amid a phalanx of proud and hard Roman soldiers
who hated the noise and the crowd and the foreignness
of it all,
and took out their spite by tugging your bonds
and watching you fall with arms extended,
and when you saw your Mother there,
and the aching pain passed between you,
did you see all the other mothers
aching in their pain for what evildoers would do
to their sons and daughters in the days to come,
mothers of the disapeared,
mothers of political prisoners,
mothers of those slain by bombers,
mothers of the beaten and kidnapped,
mothers looking for children buried in mass graves,
mothers who watch their children starve for others' gain?
and the heaviness pressed all around you,
as the full moon's light peaked through the olive trees,
and your apostles snored in the shadows,
and you sweated blood in the depths of your grief,
how heavy did today weigh on your shoulders,
with a war-torn world,
mad with bloodlust,
despising your peace,
hot with hatred and selfish fulfilment
sometimes done in the name of God,
or done in the name of self,
careless with all you have taught?
When they tied you to the pillar, Lord,
and scourged you in the Roman way,
a beating so severe that it alone could take a life,
as the weights at the ends of the whips,
and the heavy slap of the leather tore your flesh,
did you see the babies ripped for profit,
the innocents blown up to make a political statement,
the slaughtered millions killed
because they belonged to the wrong class,
or bloodline,
or culture
or faith
or country?
Which gave you the most pain,
the cruel leather,
or the knowlege how we would reject you?
When you walked that long walk
with the heavy crossbeam tied to your hands
as they paraded you and the others
to the Place of the Skull
amid a phalanx of proud and hard Roman soldiers
who hated the noise and the crowd and the foreignness
of it all,
and took out their spite by tugging your bonds
and watching you fall with arms extended,
and when you saw your Mother there,
and the aching pain passed between you,
did you see all the other mothers
aching in their pain for what evildoers would do
to their sons and daughters in the days to come,
mothers of the disapeared,
mothers of political prisoners,
mothers of those slain by bombers,
mothers of the beaten and kidnapped,
mothers looking for children buried in mass graves,
mothers who watch their children starve for others' gain?
When they nailed you to the cross,
and hung you up to die the slow death
reserved for slaves and foreign traitors,
gradual suffocation
in hot, aching, painful breaths,
did our evil make the pain that much harder?
Did our lack of mercy and love
echo down the centuries like a pressing weight
making your sacrifice all the more painful?
And yet, still you managed to love us,
and gave us all you had left,
your mother,
your compassion,
your heart's blood.
Dear Lord,
Forgive us!
Forgive us!
Susan E. Stone
© 2003
II
Ecce Homo: A meditation
Ecce Homo: A meditation
You stand there Lord,
before the haughty Roman judge,
bloody,
beaten,
abandoned.
Behold, says Pilate.
So frail you seem,
as you lift your bloodied head
and look upon this gathered crowd,
hungry as jackals.
Bruised and battered, the face
that looks out over the assembly
gazes not with hot hatred
or numb resignation of the broken,
nor self-pity,
but with love
and grief
and an unfathomable caring
that yearns to heal each of us.
Lord, I am not worthy to meet your gaze.
Have I not, like Peter,
denied you?
Or like Judas, betrayed you;
Time after time, have I not
added to your stripes,
pierced your head
with the hard thorns of an unloving heart?
And yet here you stand,
pouring yourself out like a drink offering,
letting the cup be drained
until nothing is left.
Lord, you said the word to heal me -
let me never forget the price you paid.
Susan E. Stone © 2003
How slow the moments must have seemed,
there in the garden,
among the olive trees that moonlit night,
as the trees uplifted their branches
in the dappled light and shadow
like arms uplifted in prayer.
Only they managed to stay and watch with you.
The garden grew quiet as your followers fell asleep
one by one,
unable to keep vigil,
even though you asked,
you wanted,
you needed.
Their gentle snoring was almost the only sound.
Did you see Peter
struggling to keep his eyes open,
John nudging him to stay awake,
only to succumb himself?
Was this, then, how it was to begin,
the isolation of the sacrificial victim,
The Father requiring you to give up everything that comforted
as you gazed into the gathering darkness,
even your companions in this long journey,
the witnesses to a loving God's concern.
No crutches or helpers then,
just you and the night.
How quiet it all was.
Did you begin to strain your ears
listening for sounds
of the gathering mob?
Susan E. Stone © 2003
V
Meditation on Jesus about to be Crucified
The last moment
when you stood upon the ground,
felt the dust beneath your feet,
and had the dignity of your clothes,
blood stained and dirty though they were,
did the women who offered you
wine and myrrh wonder at the gently look you gave them,
and the firm rejection
of the small mercy they offered?
Did the soldiers who prepared for your death,
hard men, they,
at your side since the procession began
wonder at how you were diferent,
as you calmly gave them the last of your wordly goods,
garment by garment.
Did they notice,
and did it make them angry,
that you,
who should have been cringing, cursing and crying
calmly waited for the next wave of pain.
Did those travelling into the city that day,
who could not help but see the executioners at work
call out in recognition,
in pity, or in scorn
as the soldiers
threw you to the ground and took out their hammer and nails?
Susan E. Stone © 2003
VI
The Arrest
How hard was it then, to gather the mob?
Did not the law require
that those who accuse
to go forth and arrest
the one they accused?
But with time, they were gathered,
and there they went,
across the valley and up the hill,
with torches and swords,
some with fear,
some with envy,
some for the excitement.
Some no doubt believed they were right,
but he came, though,
because he had to,
having tested the truth of his Master,
then turned away
into the darkness.
What did they expect to find there
when they reached the garden,
besides an olive press
and trees
under the full moon?
Were they looking for outlaws,
armed with swords and knives,
plotters of inssurrection,
or theft, or
rebellion?
He thought he knew what they would find,
sleepy men, maybe,
or praying, keeping vigil in the night,
men who thought that he was their friend,
unaware of the moment of truth he was bringing,
sitting with their teacher.
Perhaps the thought of His face
gave him a twinge,
but he walked on.
How hard was it then, to enter that garden?
The gates were unlocked, and the crowd
pushed through with ease.
He came through first,
with a soldier behind him,
stepping around the sleepy forms of men he knew so well.
Andrew wiping the sleep from his eyes,
Matthew and James,
who started to call his name in greeting,
then noticed the crowd behind,
Thomas who became instantly alert,
Peter and John, standing in front of the man he had come to see.
Pushing them aside, then he found Jesus.
Was this the man he left, just a few hours ago?
His clothes were damp, like sweat, on this cool spring night,
but there was the smell of iron in the air,
a smell like blood.
So tired and haggard he had grown in just half an evening,
reddish rivulets had trickled across his face,
pale harbingers of what would come in the morning,
blood like sweat.
Looking at Him there,
Perhaps he wondered at his own audacity,
wondered why he had found it worth following Him,
wondered what he would think tomorrow,
wondered if he could change his mind.
With a sigh, Jesus looked up, and met his gaze.
No anger there, nor fear, but awareness of it all,
Love and a sad determination.
Perhaps it felt like a knife going through him.
"Master," said Judas, and moved forward to seal his fate.
Susan E. Stone © 2003
VII
Station Four
Let us see it then,
That moment.
One tiny momement in time.
There he is,
the central person
of a sad procession,
the heavy crossbeam across his shoulders,
tied to his arms,
his head crowned with the ugly cap of thorns,
a trickle of blood down his forehead from their touch.
His face has started to swell from the bruising
homage the soldiers paid him,
blood seeps through the back of his robe
from the kiss of their whips.
She sees him then.
Their eyes meet,
He pauses,
stopping the sad procession.
No words pass between them.
No words need to be said.
She reaches out a hand,
Then the soldiers jerk his bonds forward to catch up with the rest.
Susan E. Stone © 2003
before the haughty Roman judge,
bloody,
beaten,
abandoned.
Behold, says Pilate.
So frail you seem,
as you lift your bloodied head
and look upon this gathered crowd,
hungry as jackals.
Bruised and battered, the face
that looks out over the assembly
gazes not with hot hatred
or numb resignation of the broken,
nor self-pity,
but with love
and grief
and an unfathomable caring
that yearns to heal each of us.
Lord, I am not worthy to meet your gaze.
Have I not, like Peter,
denied you?
Or like Judas, betrayed you;
Time after time, have I not
added to your stripes,
pierced your head
with the hard thorns of an unloving heart?
And yet here you stand,
pouring yourself out like a drink offering,
letting the cup be drained
until nothing is left.
Lord, you said the word to heal me -
let me never forget the price you paid.
Susan E. Stone © 2003
III
Meditation on Gethsemane
How slow the moments must have seemed,
there in the garden,
among the olive trees that moonlit night,
as the trees uplifted their branches
in the dappled light and shadow
like arms uplifted in prayer.
Only they managed to stay and watch with you.
The garden grew quiet as your followers fell asleep
one by one,
unable to keep vigil,
even though you asked,
you wanted,
you needed.
Their gentle snoring was almost the only sound.
Did you see Peter
struggling to keep his eyes open,
John nudging him to stay awake,
only to succumb himself?
Was this, then, how it was to begin,
the isolation of the sacrificial victim,
The Father requiring you to give up everything that comforted
as you gazed into the gathering darkness,
even your companions in this long journey,
the witnesses to a loving God's concern.
No crutches or helpers then,
just you and the night.
How quiet it all was.
Did you begin to strain your ears
listening for sounds
of the gathering mob?
Susan E. Stone © 2003
V
Meditation on Jesus about to be Crucified
The last moment
when you stood upon the ground,
felt the dust beneath your feet,
and had the dignity of your clothes,
blood stained and dirty though they were,
did the women who offered you
wine and myrrh wonder at the gently look you gave them,
and the firm rejection
of the small mercy they offered?
Did the soldiers who prepared for your death,
hard men, they,
at your side since the procession began
wonder at how you were diferent,
as you calmly gave them the last of your wordly goods,
garment by garment.
Did they notice,
and did it make them angry,
that you,
who should have been cringing, cursing and crying
calmly waited for the next wave of pain.
Did those travelling into the city that day,
who could not help but see the executioners at work
call out in recognition,
in pity, or in scorn
as the soldiers
threw you to the ground and took out their hammer and nails?
Susan E. Stone © 2003
VI
The Arrest
How hard was it then, to gather the mob?
Did not the law require
that those who accuse
to go forth and arrest
the one they accused?
But with time, they were gathered,
and there they went,
across the valley and up the hill,
with torches and swords,
some with fear,
some with envy,
some for the excitement.
Some no doubt believed they were right,
but he came, though,
because he had to,
having tested the truth of his Master,
then turned away
into the darkness.
What did they expect to find there
when they reached the garden,
besides an olive press
and trees
under the full moon?
Were they looking for outlaws,
armed with swords and knives,
plotters of inssurrection,
or theft, or
rebellion?
He thought he knew what they would find,
sleepy men, maybe,
or praying, keeping vigil in the night,
men who thought that he was their friend,
unaware of the moment of truth he was bringing,
sitting with their teacher.
Perhaps the thought of His face
gave him a twinge,
but he walked on.
How hard was it then, to enter that garden?
The gates were unlocked, and the crowd
pushed through with ease.
He came through first,
with a soldier behind him,
stepping around the sleepy forms of men he knew so well.
Andrew wiping the sleep from his eyes,
Matthew and James,
who started to call his name in greeting,
then noticed the crowd behind,
Thomas who became instantly alert,
Peter and John, standing in front of the man he had come to see.
Pushing them aside, then he found Jesus.
Was this the man he left, just a few hours ago?
His clothes were damp, like sweat, on this cool spring night,
but there was the smell of iron in the air,
a smell like blood.
So tired and haggard he had grown in just half an evening,
reddish rivulets had trickled across his face,
pale harbingers of what would come in the morning,
blood like sweat.
Looking at Him there,
Perhaps he wondered at his own audacity,
wondered why he had found it worth following Him,
wondered what he would think tomorrow,
wondered if he could change his mind.
With a sigh, Jesus looked up, and met his gaze.
No anger there, nor fear, but awareness of it all,
Love and a sad determination.
Perhaps it felt like a knife going through him.
"Master," said Judas, and moved forward to seal his fate.
Susan E. Stone © 2003
VII
Station Four
Let us see it then,
That moment.
One tiny momement in time.
There he is,
the central person
of a sad procession,
the heavy crossbeam across his shoulders,
tied to his arms,
his head crowned with the ugly cap of thorns,
a trickle of blood down his forehead from their touch.
His face has started to swell from the bruising
homage the soldiers paid him,
blood seeps through the back of his robe
from the kiss of their whips.
She sees him then.
Their eyes meet,
He pauses,
stopping the sad procession.
No words pass between them.
No words need to be said.
She reaches out a hand,
Then the soldiers jerk his bonds forward to catch up with the rest.
Susan E. Stone © 2003