In one garden,
the lie was chosen
over the will of God,
and nature
groaned under the curse
and the grief
and the countless tears
of mankind
that followed.

In one garden,
quietly,
one full moon night
the will of God was chosen
over the lie
and nature knew
the promise of healing
that would free a woeful mankind
of its tears
had begun
in the unfathomable grief of
the one who said yes.

                               II

                        The Shroud

How white the linen
they laid out
at first.

How clean the water was
in its ewer,
waiting to be poured.

How fresh the towel.

Loving hands though,
soon turned the waters
ruby red
in a vain attempt
to erase some of the terrors of the day.

Sweet spice could not wholly
cover up the smell
of blood,
of pain,
of death,
of the cost of redemption.

Loving hands, though,
wrapped the linen snugly
over his prostrate form,
as if in final gesture,
a last farewell,
letting the whiteness of the sheet
turn what color it would,
Loving hands
never knowing
what image
their care
would leave behind.

                                       
                                                 III

                                         The Crowning

The dirty soldier's cloak,
a proper Roman scarlet
is draped over his bleeding raw back,
the fabric growing darker
wherever it touches
the handiwork
the soldiers left behind
in long red stripes
still bloody.

A game he has become in their hands.
For the soldiers
bored,
violent children of a violent culture,
he is a doll to take their frustrations out
against everything
they hate about this
dusty foreign place
filled with strange people.

They crown him with their
disdain,
hate,
fear,
wrapped amid the thorns.

And as they bow low before each blow,
they ignore the miracle in their midst,
the privilege they have been given,
to be the ones to stand in
for all the mockery,
all the disdain
of God and good
that we heap upon the head of Jesus
until the end of time.


                                     IV

          Meditation on the Fourth Station of the Cross

How long ago you heard
the words of Simeon,
your dearest son
A sign of contradition,
a sword to pass through you,
and here it is,
that moment so long ago,
dreaded,
feared,
fulfilled.

It is not a long walk
from the judgement place
to the place of execution,
but the way is filled
with the passover crowd,
and the streets are narrow.
how you have to struggle,
trying to follow,
to get close,
to see.

The procession halts for a moment,
and soon you see why,
as he lies there,
bloody,
burdened,
tasting the dust of the street.
An exasperated soldier
begins a kick to motivate him,
but for some reason,
realizes the futility of it,
and begins to yank him up.
For a moment you touch him,
try to comfort him,
feel the sword go deeper into your heart.
How deep the sword must go before it is over.

                                       V

                At the Foot of Your Cross

Lord,
let me find refuge
always
at the foot of your cross,
where you bled and died
so that I might live.

Only here,
beneath the cross
where you shed your blood
can I find refuge
from the darkness.

Only here,
beneath the cross,
can I find refuge
from the wages of sin.

Here at the foot of your cross,
I pour out my tears
like the Magdalene,
tears of grief at what my sin has wrought,
tears of sorrow for what you chose to do,
tears of grief at the need.

Here at the foot of your cross,
I stand with your sorrowful mother,
she who I once wanted to comfort
for her pain,
her sorrow,
her loss,
but who sustains me as I collapse in grief.

Here at the foot of your cross,
I confront the reality of my self,
sinful,
weak,
undeserving,
and find not the condemnation or rejection I deserve,
but only love.

                                          VI

                      Mary on the Way to Golgotha

How thick the crowd must have seemed,
O Lady of Sorrows,
as you threaded your way
in that numbing timelessness
that comes with crisis,
each second seeming to last minutes,
your son,
your son,
his beautiful face,
swollen,
bleeding, battered,
breaking your heart.

How much you must have wanted to scream
NONONONONO!
Don't let this be today,
now,
at this moment,
ever,
even though you knew he was given to you
for just this purpose,
and the sword you felt
had been fortold long ago.

How hard it must have been
not to throw yourself at the guards,
to some how get them to stop,
to let him rest,
to give him a chance
to change his mind
and make this all a nightmare.

And yet, you merely told God
Your will be done,
and continued on,
giving all you had
until the end
and darkness fell.

                                    VII

                         On the Crucifixion

Suspended in that place
where heaven and earth meet,
an offering of
love unfathomable,
marked by the red liquid of life
given up in sacrifice.


You wait there,
feeling the life you give
ebb away drop by drop,
throb by throb,
swallowed up
by others' sin,
you,
both scapegoat
and sacrifice,
a poem of love,
a sign of contradition,
Lord.