Catholic Meditations

On The Passion of Our Lord
Page 4

                                            I

                               The First Blow

The whip travels in a descending arc,
three thongs carrying weights of lead
double headed cargo
to increase the impact.

The hand that wields is,
the rough and calloused hand
of a soldier doing a duty,
unknowing,
uncaring
of whose back it was in front of him.

Perhaps as he swings,
he thinks of all the looks of disdain,
the women who turn away,
the men who spit when he passes
and they think he does not see,
this strange people
with their strange hates
and strange language
and strange god,
and in retalliation,
he swings harder.

Yet his hand is not alone
on the braided leather of the handle,
his hand,
shadowed by every hand,
my hand,
my arm swinging the leather,
my sin adding to the agony
of that blow,
my darkness slapping against his skin,
causing him to gasp for breath
as it bites
my weakness the lead gouges digging.

Mea culpa,
mea culpa,
mea maxima culpa.

                                             II

               On the Road to Jerusalem One Friday in Spring

Surely he has borne our griefs
and carried our sorrows;
yet we esteemed him stricken,
smitten by God, and afflicted - Isaiah

Those coming into the city
may have wondered about the small group
on the hill,
wondered idly about who was being executed
so close to the sabbath,
and at the feast-time, too.

Perhaps they shuddered at the thought
of such a shameful death
coming to them or theirs.

Perhaps they felt pity
that anyone would die that way.

Perhaps they stopped a moment to taunt.

Did they notice
a knot of women
standing close,
oblivious to the soldiers,
or to the mockers,
lost in their grief,
waiting?

Did they notice
how the sky darkened,
as if even the heavens
longed to weep?
                                               III

                         Meditation on the Death of Christ

I know not why you chose
this way
to show us your love,
to embrace a slave's death,
a death of public humilation,
torture and pain.
I know not why you chose
to carry the rough wood
that your hands knew so well
how to shape and form
into so many better things
than a tool of torture,
or why you let them
pierce you,
but this was your choice.

O Lord,
let me never forget
that you really walked those steps,
felt the blows,
the roughness of the wood,
the pain,
tasted the blood.
You were there,
and you did it for love,
abandoning all,
until you felt even abandoned by the Father,
nothing left
but our sins,
the pain,
and the darkness of death.

What greater love story ever
was composed upon this sad earth?
                    IV

                                Jesus on the Cross

How hard the wood rubbed against
your bruised and bleeding back,
how hard the iron
that made your arms
throb with excruciating pain,
how the thorns dug in when you held your head fully up,
a symphony of pain
whose depths I can only vaguely
imagine,
how hard it was to see
the Magdalene there,
weeping her heart out,
your aunt,
and especially,
your mother,
who watched every moment,
sharing your pain
as you moved into the darkness of death,
but could any of these compare
to the wall of separation
from your Father
that our sins,
the sins of the world
placed between you,
until, bereft of everything but pain
and the approach of death,
you cried out
like a child longing
for the parent
he couldn't see.

All this for love.

                                          V

                                 Behold the Man

Behold the Man! say Pilate,
wishing to make you look small,
frail,
worthless,
nothing for the authorities to worry about.

Behold the Man, say the nonbeliever,
wishing to strip you of the power of God,
to make you safe,
ignorable,
worthless,
nothing to worry about.

Behold the Man, say some,
wishing you were the person they want you to be,
ascended master,
apostle of hate,
elder brother,
letting your message be nothing to worry about.

Behold the Man, say I,
Wishing to follow you with all my heart,
True God and true man,
who lovingly laid down his life
to bring us all home,
let me proclaim clearly,
Jesus Christ is Lord!

                                      VI

                         Good Friday Night

O Blessed Mother,
O Lady of Sorrows,
How dark that night must have been,
when they led you home
from Golgotha and the tomb.

Did you find yourself
staring numbly
into the dark,
seeing the sad day's moments
playing over and over
in your mind,
as the quiet tears
trickled down your cheeks?

Did they gather together,
one by one,
the scattered disciples,
afraid of each noise
yet not knowing where to go,
except towards you,
all they had left
of their master?

Did they come to hold you in your grief,
or come to be mothered?

                                       VII

                 To Mary, Mother of Sorrows

O Mother of Sorrows,
how often I come here and kneel at your feet,
and see those sorrow-filled eyes
staring up
at the suffering and battered
face of your son,
and still,
you are able to take my hand,
and give it that little squeeze
that says, Have courage.

O Mother of Sorrows,
How often I come here,
and weep all my misery out on your shoulder,
filled with guilt and grief and remorse,
knowing full well the burden
that I have laid on your blessed Son's back,
and still you hold me close,
and comfort me.

O Mother of Sorrows,
How often I have come here,
wanting to comfort you
in your sorrow and your loss,
and found myself overcome with remorse and sadness
over what your son
chose to do that I might live,
and find myself comforted by the one I longed to aid.

O Mother of the Word Incarnate,
Thank you for despising not my petions,
but in your mercy,
hearing and answering me.