On The Passion of Our Lord
Page 6
I
Thoughts on the Fifth Station of the Cross:
Simon of Cyrene
Perhaps he had heard you preach
the week before,
as you proclaimed the good news
in the temple.
Or perhaps he had been busy
working in the fields
and had no time for the latest gossip
as the city swelled with pilgrims
and the feast neared.
Dusky skinned and dusty from his work,
grabbed by the Roman guard
to insure that you would live
long enough for them to kill you,
did he look at you,
bloodied, beaten, exhausted,
so close to the edge of death,
with disgust and fear,
or did you see a twinkle of compassion
cross his eyes
as they cut the ropes tieing the heavy beam
to your arms,
and laid it across his shoulders.
And did the walk the last bit of the way
with women crying and people jeering
cause him to look at you anew,
to lose his anger
and feel grief and sorrow take its place
as the sad procession wound its way to the end?
Amazing,
that we still remember
this poor man,
servant in the fields
long after so many others have passed into dust,
because your life touched his.
II
Thoughts on the Passion
Dear Jesus,
Bring to mind often
that sad, holy, day,
when you carried that horrendous burden
sin of the world
on your sinless, torn and battered back,
the unrighteousness of others
on you, the Son of righteousness,
the hatred and evilness of selfish lack of love
on you who were all love,
all that darkness
on the shoulders of you who are always the Light.
O Lord,
let me think of the crowd,
and know it was my sins
that set them screaming for your blood.
let me think of the whip
that my sin drove to cut your skin,
let me know that my hand
hammered the nails
through all the times I have chosen
to do wrong, not counting the cost.
Lord,
Let me never take for granted
the pain, the grief, the sorrow
of what you did.
Instead let me offer you
the tears of my remorse,
the sighs of my heart,
and know how much I am loved,
now and forever.
III
Mary at the Crucifixion
The soldiers no doubt
glanced up at you from time to time,
as they looked up from their gambling,
and the stale jokes,
and the same old stories
they whiled the time away with,
bored by this duty,
tired of the smell of approaching death
swatting at the flies
drawn by the blood.
But you were no threat to their orders,
O Lady of sorrows,
flanked by your kinswomen
and the Magdalene,
women not the type to talk to soldiers,
women here to mourn,
women here to witness.
The day dragged on
and the sky darkened.
Some came to scoff,
got tired, left.
Crucifixion takes so long -
time for many thoughts,
sorrows,
wishes.
Did you think about
the first time you saw him,
so many years before,
your babe, the child of promise,
while watching him
complete the task he was born for,
in blood and pain and sorrow,
your child,
your perfect son.
So much had been asked of you,
so much,
down to the last tear.
Did you wish that time would pass more quickly
so that it would be over, and that he would be released?
Did you dread each struggling breath,
worried that it would be his last?
When they laid him in your lap
like you held him that first time,
so long ago,
and you examined every mark
and every cut
and every bruise
and felt the creeping coldness
as he stiffened beneath your arms
did you imagine that the promised sword
could cut so deep?
IV
Dismis on the Cross
Your mouth tasted
of dust,
and blood,
and fear,
and pain.
Fear-
the knowledge of what was to come by sunset,
when you entered that darkness,
the pit that was awaiting you,
reward for your deeds.
Through the veil
of self-pity
and pain
and loathing,
you noticed the interplay
between the man in the middle
and those around him.
Yeshua...
had you heard that name before,
heard of the healings,
the teachings,
the holiness?
How battered he was now,
scourged
and stripped
and wounded
and dying.
Yeshua,
healer of the blind,
promiser of hope,
now the victim.
Did you notice the women
who came to watch,
daring the mockery of the soldiers,
focused only on him?
No loved ones for you
to witness your last moments -
those who might have cared
long realizing
that you would only bring them grief.
Had you been moved
when the procession stopped
as he hit the ground,
and his mother found him,
gave him one last caress
before you were dragged off again?
Did you notice those who cared,
she who wiped his face,
those who wept?
Did your gazes meet,
Yeshua's and yours,
did you see the depths of love
that could love even in the wells of death,
the depths of pain,
even someone like you?
And in that moment did you see
the truth in the Roman's sign?
V
Mary Magdalene
Holding up her hands,
she did not know if she raised them
in prayer,
pleading,
or anger,
watching him die.
"O Lord, Master of the Universe,
let me wake up
and discover this is all a nightmare,"
she whispered.
His mother touched her shoulder.
Together, they wept silently,
tears rolling down their cheeks
as they watched
he who was the center of their life
slowly ebb,
blood drop by blood drop,
breath by breath,
moment by moment.
In all the frazzled weariness
that had made up so much of her life,
he had brought
the healing touch,
the acceptance and love
that had showed her the way to God,
those things she thought denied to her forever,
and here, her gentle master
hung unrecognizable,
yet without a word of anger
at those who misused him.
Ignoring the mockery of the soldiers,
she drew near as she could be,
collapsing in her tears,
her heartbreak,
her love.
How little she knew
how her tears and love would be rewarded
as her aching sorrow would turn to
amazing, bewildered joy
come Sunday morning.
VI
Mary at the Trial by Pilate
O Mother Mary,
as Pilate tried your son,
were you in the courtyard
to hear those hateful voices
tear at your heart -
Kill Him!
Crucify Him!
This was your child
they were focusing all their hate on,
your child,
the child of promise
who you had watched grow,
saw bloom into the gift of God
to an undeserving mankind,
the healer,
the teacher,
the sign to be contradicted.
O Mother Mary,
did you see what they had done to him
as they led him out,
beaten and bloody,
crowned with a mockery of a crown,
almost unrecognisable
from the blood and from the bruising.
This was your child,
the child angels announced,
the child who loved his Father so much
he tarried behind at the temple
and almost broke your heart in fear,
the child who healed the wounded
now wounded in so many ways.
O Mother Mary,
did you at that moment pray,
like your son had, the night before,
"O my God, not my will, but yours?"
VII
The Nails
How hard the iron
of those nails were,
like the hearts of those
would would not listen
to your kind words,
offer of the Father's love.
grey and dark
like sin,
pointed
like the cruelty
of an unrepentant soul.
And yet,
you stretched out your bloodstained arm,
openned your hand,
as if eager for them,
as if accepting a kiss of love
as they penetrated your flesh
in an agony of pain,
an echo of the misery
of a lost soul.
Thoughts on the Fifth Station of the Cross:
Simon of Cyrene
Perhaps he had heard you preach
the week before,
as you proclaimed the good news
in the temple.
Or perhaps he had been busy
working in the fields
and had no time for the latest gossip
as the city swelled with pilgrims
and the feast neared.
Dusky skinned and dusty from his work,
grabbed by the Roman guard
to insure that you would live
long enough for them to kill you,
did he look at you,
bloodied, beaten, exhausted,
so close to the edge of death,
with disgust and fear,
or did you see a twinkle of compassion
cross his eyes
as they cut the ropes tieing the heavy beam
to your arms,
and laid it across his shoulders.
And did the walk the last bit of the way
with women crying and people jeering
cause him to look at you anew,
to lose his anger
and feel grief and sorrow take its place
as the sad procession wound its way to the end?
Amazing,
that we still remember
this poor man,
servant in the fields
long after so many others have passed into dust,
because your life touched his.
II
Thoughts on the Passion
Dear Jesus,
Bring to mind often
that sad, holy, day,
when you carried that horrendous burden
sin of the world
on your sinless, torn and battered back,
the unrighteousness of others
on you, the Son of righteousness,
the hatred and evilness of selfish lack of love
on you who were all love,
all that darkness
on the shoulders of you who are always the Light.
O Lord,
let me think of the crowd,
and know it was my sins
that set them screaming for your blood.
let me think of the whip
that my sin drove to cut your skin,
let me know that my hand
hammered the nails
through all the times I have chosen
to do wrong, not counting the cost.
Lord,
Let me never take for granted
the pain, the grief, the sorrow
of what you did.
Instead let me offer you
the tears of my remorse,
the sighs of my heart,
and know how much I am loved,
now and forever.
III
Mary at the Crucifixion
The soldiers no doubt
glanced up at you from time to time,
as they looked up from their gambling,
and the stale jokes,
and the same old stories
they whiled the time away with,
bored by this duty,
tired of the smell of approaching death
swatting at the flies
drawn by the blood.
But you were no threat to their orders,
O Lady of sorrows,
flanked by your kinswomen
and the Magdalene,
women not the type to talk to soldiers,
women here to mourn,
women here to witness.
The day dragged on
and the sky darkened.
Some came to scoff,
got tired, left.
Crucifixion takes so long -
time for many thoughts,
sorrows,
wishes.
Did you think about
the first time you saw him,
so many years before,
your babe, the child of promise,
while watching him
complete the task he was born for,
in blood and pain and sorrow,
your child,
your perfect son.
So much had been asked of you,
so much,
down to the last tear.
Did you wish that time would pass more quickly
so that it would be over, and that he would be released?
Did you dread each struggling breath,
worried that it would be his last?
When they laid him in your lap
like you held him that first time,
so long ago,
and you examined every mark
and every cut
and every bruise
and felt the creeping coldness
as he stiffened beneath your arms
did you imagine that the promised sword
could cut so deep?
IV
Dismis on the Cross
Your mouth tasted
of dust,
and blood,
and fear,
and pain.
Fear-
the knowledge of what was to come by sunset,
when you entered that darkness,
the pit that was awaiting you,
reward for your deeds.
Through the veil
of self-pity
and pain
and loathing,
you noticed the interplay
between the man in the middle
and those around him.
Yeshua...
had you heard that name before,
heard of the healings,
the teachings,
the holiness?
How battered he was now,
scourged
and stripped
and wounded
and dying.
Yeshua,
healer of the blind,
promiser of hope,
now the victim.
Did you notice the women
who came to watch,
daring the mockery of the soldiers,
focused only on him?
No loved ones for you
to witness your last moments -
those who might have cared
long realizing
that you would only bring them grief.
Had you been moved
when the procession stopped
as he hit the ground,
and his mother found him,
gave him one last caress
before you were dragged off again?
Did you notice those who cared,
she who wiped his face,
those who wept?
Did your gazes meet,
Yeshua's and yours,
did you see the depths of love
that could love even in the wells of death,
the depths of pain,
even someone like you?
And in that moment did you see
the truth in the Roman's sign?
V
Mary Magdalene
Holding up her hands,
she did not know if she raised them
in prayer,
pleading,
or anger,
watching him die.
"O Lord, Master of the Universe,
let me wake up
and discover this is all a nightmare,"
she whispered.
His mother touched her shoulder.
Together, they wept silently,
tears rolling down their cheeks
as they watched
he who was the center of their life
slowly ebb,
blood drop by blood drop,
breath by breath,
moment by moment.
In all the frazzled weariness
that had made up so much of her life,
he had brought
the healing touch,
the acceptance and love
that had showed her the way to God,
those things she thought denied to her forever,
and here, her gentle master
hung unrecognizable,
yet without a word of anger
at those who misused him.
Ignoring the mockery of the soldiers,
she drew near as she could be,
collapsing in her tears,
her heartbreak,
her love.
How little she knew
how her tears and love would be rewarded
as her aching sorrow would turn to
amazing, bewildered joy
come Sunday morning.
VI
Mary at the Trial by Pilate
O Mother Mary,
as Pilate tried your son,
were you in the courtyard
to hear those hateful voices
tear at your heart -
Kill Him!
Crucify Him!
This was your child
they were focusing all their hate on,
your child,
the child of promise
who you had watched grow,
saw bloom into the gift of God
to an undeserving mankind,
the healer,
the teacher,
the sign to be contradicted.
O Mother Mary,
did you see what they had done to him
as they led him out,
beaten and bloody,
crowned with a mockery of a crown,
almost unrecognisable
from the blood and from the bruising.
This was your child,
the child angels announced,
the child who loved his Father so much
he tarried behind at the temple
and almost broke your heart in fear,
the child who healed the wounded
now wounded in so many ways.
O Mother Mary,
did you at that moment pray,
like your son had, the night before,
"O my God, not my will, but yours?"
VII
The Nails
How hard the iron
of those nails were,
like the hearts of those
would would not listen
to your kind words,
offer of the Father's love.
grey and dark
like sin,
pointed
like the cruelty
of an unrepentant soul.
And yet,
you stretched out your bloodstained arm,
openned your hand,
as if eager for them,
as if accepting a kiss of love
as they penetrated your flesh
in an agony of pain,
an echo of the misery
of a lost soul.
All Original Content Copyright © 2004
by Susan E. Stone