|photo by jimforest / flickr|
the vault of heaven was dissolved in fire.
'Father, why hast Thou forsaken me?
Mother, I beg you, do not weep for me...'
Mary Magdalene beat her breasts and sobbed,
His dear disciple, stone-faced, stared.
His mother stood apart. No other looked
into her secret eyes. Nobody dared."
There is only silence now.
We onlookers, led by the Priest—
move quickly to Station Twelve.
It is so quiet you can hear the
beating of your own heart.
For once our leader-Priest is silent.
He only points upward.
And we all look.
Even after all these years—
something powerful tugs at our heartstrings.
Jesus is dead.
It has all come to this.
The weeping mother and women…
The terrible nails.
As he breathed his last, he moaned,
‘It is finished.’
And so we stand looking up.
Like the Priest we say nothing.
There is nothing to say
when someone we love dies.
We weep—if we can.
We hug—if anyone is there.
We stumble out of the room
and lean against the wall.
There is nothing now except
Prayers don’t work.
Words don’t help.
And so we look up—
pondering the mystery.”
“Surely he has borne our grief, and carried our sorrows;
yet we esteemed him stricken, smitten of God, and afflicted.
But he was wounded for our transgressions,
he was bruised for our iniquities:
the chastisement of our peace was upon him;
and with his stripes we are healed.”--Isaiah 53. 3-4
--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com