I
By His Stripes

Let me never forget, O Lord,
how you offered yourself for the soldier's whip,
the slapping and blows
of anger and mocking,
and by the blood you shed,
and the death you died,
you wrought our salvation.

And yet we hold the whip still in our hands,
the flagellum with it's biting teeth
flailing through the air
to land with its sickening slap
on your bloodied back
each time we choose to hurt,
to have the final word,
to force,
to gloat,
to ignore,
to deny.

Teach us, O Lord,
to heal instead of harm,
to bless instead of curse,
to love instead of hate,
to see you always in the face of the stranger,
the downcast,
the needy,
the empty.

Instead of the whip,
send us the tears of true repentence,
that with you help,
we may go and sin no more.

                         II

Friday Morning Meditation

On this Friday morning, my Lord,
let me remember that sad Friday morning so long ago,
when Pilate presented you to the gathered mob,
bloody,
battered,
beaten,
a mockery of a king
crowned with thorns
meant to look small,
crushed,
contained.

Yet no mortal man could contain
the love that looked out over the crowd,
the love that heard the cries of hate,
and still forgave,
the love that waited patiently
as the executioners gathered
and sentence was passed,
the love that chose
this very path
to bring us life.

May I never forget
the gift you gave us
that sad Friday so long ago.

                    III
Teach Us How To Love

O my Jesus,
tortured,
beaten,
bloody,
mocked,
and stripped of all,
who laid down your freedom
willingly,
knowing what we are,
what we have done
and are likely to do again.

Our hands are not clean, Lord,
never could we be worthy
to be given what you offer us,
your own dear self,
your own body and blood,
medicine beyond all others.
Yet you call us home
to wash us,
heal us,
renew us.

Teach us how to love!

                                    IV

Peter in the Courtyard: A Paschal meditation

A nightmare night,
a night of shadows,
he sat there by the fire,
cold,
alone,
afraid,
yet drawn to this place of danger
by a desperate desire to do something.

The darkness of his soul
how it matched the darkness of the night
as he sat by the fire
not listening to the jibes
of those who sat near him.
He stared into the fire
and waited.

His world falling apart,
he thought there was nothing left but fear.
"No, I don't know him," he said,
the words escaping his lips
in an unstoppable reflex
of self preservation.

Fear and anger and anguish,
the darkness of the night,
the pain of waiting,
"No, you are mistaken!"
he chokes on the words, perhaps,
torn in two.

The third time with curses,
and then he sees
the eyes that know,
the eyes so tired, so sad,
the eyes touch his
with loving forgivness
and his soul plunges into the final darkness
as the cock crows.



Susan E. Stone © 2003, 2004