"Jesus was led away, and carrying the cross by himself, went out to what is called the Place of the Skull, in Hebrew, Golgotha. --John 19.17
His Cross
The scourging finally over.
The death sentence passed.
The crowd now silent.
His old robe covers his wounds.
The crown of thorns on his head.
Exhausted—he takes what they give.
A heavy cross.
He stares ahead.
He begins to walk.
The Church called it:
Via Dolorosa.
The way of sorrows.
My Cross
What does it mean to carry my cross?
No small thing.
No indigestion or migraine--
No worries that kept me awake last night.
No large unpaid bill or even gasoline prices.
Or who will win the election.
No small thing.
But who will I be?
What shall I give my life to?
What shall I lose and yet save?
What shall I touch and make better?
What shall I let go and leave in the dust?
What burden shall I assume
I could easily just ignore?
No small thing.
Just something heavy and splintered
and well-nigh unbearable.
Every day I must pick up my cross.
Hopefully making the world better.
Hopefully making my life more human.
No small thing.
--Roger Lovette
"Surely our griefs he himself bore, And our sorrows he carried; Yet we ourselves esteemed him stricken, Smitten by God, and afflicted." --Isaiah 53.4
(We continue to use Cecile Martin's renderings of the Stations of the Cross. The originals hang in Saint Paul the Apostle Paul Catholic Church in Seneca, South Carolina. )
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