Thorns mockingly crown you,
blossom with your blood—
presage of
the Spirit’s
holy
fire.
Thorns mockingly crown you,
blossom with your blood—
presage of
the Spirit’s
holy
fire.
CRUCIFIXION
And there you stood, your little group of five
or six, as near as you dared, with the restive crowd
around you spitting and shouting out aloud
their insults, trying to prove themselves alive
by lording it over men condemned to die.
The women stood close to protect you. Young John,
of all the men, stood by you now alone.
You stood there as the sun crept through the sky.
And Jesus, failing, turned his head to you
and said (as if it were needed!), “Behold your son!”
“I see him too well,” you thought. But then to John,
“Behold your mother!” giving him to you.
And here you found a sign that even in death
he gave you love and care with his last breath.
THE WAY OF THE CROSS
What heavier grief than watching your firstborn
dragged through charades of justice, wrung with pain
and weighed down with the cross on which he’ll hang,
limping to Golgotha? Your soul was torn
by every struggling step. You could do nothing
for him. And then—scarcely to be believed—
that African the Romans dragooned retrieved
the cross he’d dropped and bore it up like something
holy—alms to him who suffered, a grace
to you who suffered, too. And you found strength
to walk behind them down the terrible length
of road that led you to the killing place.
“Be it unto me according to your word.”
“And for your heart the piercing of a sword.”