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I meditate on this a lot.

Meditations on the Fourth Station of the Cross

I

Did you feel your heart
beating in your throat
as the crowd closed in,
the swolen passover crowd,
some jeering,
some just strangers trying to see
what was happening,
blocking your access,
blocking your view,
blocking you.

Did you struggle through the backways
to catch up,
the need to be there
like panic
burning in your heart,
pulling you and the others
like a magnet,
your son,
your light
your life.

And when you finally caught up,
and saw him,
sprawled out on the road,
rough hands trying
to yank him upright,
bloody,
beaten,
exhausted,
muscles trembling in their fatigue,
and your hands were unable
to soothe the wounds,
and ease the pain,
did your voice dry up
in your grief
and shock
and longing to do
what you knew you couldn't,
to stop it all -
this thing God asked for
this thing you knew your son wanted?

Birthpangs
bitterer than any childbirth
this sword piercing your heart
as in your silent, grieving yes,
you became mother to the church.

II

How long ago you heard
the words of Simeon,
your dearest son
A sign of contradition,
a sword to pass through you,
and here it is,
that moment so long ago,
dreaded,
feared,
fulfilled.

It is not a long walk
from the judgement place
to the place of execution,
but the way is filled
with the passover crowd,
and the streets are narrow.
how you have to struggle,
trying to follow,
to get close,
to see.

The procession halts for a moment,
and soon you see why,
as he lies there,
bloody,
burdened,
tasting the dust of the street.
An exasperated soldier
begins a kick to motivate him,
but for some reason,
realizes the futility of it,
and begins to yank him up.
For a moment you touch him,
try to comfort him,
feel the sword go deeper into your heart.
How deep the sword must go before it is over.

III

Let us see it then,
That moment.
One tiny momement in time.

There he is,
the central person
of a sad procession,
the heavy crossbeam across his shoulders,
tied to his arms,
his head crowned with the ugly cap of thorns,
a trickle of blood down his forehead from their touch.
His face has started to swell from the bruising
homage the soldiers paid him,
blood seeps through the back of his robe
from the kiss of their whips.

She sees him then.
Their eyes meet,
He pauses,
stopping the sad procession.

No words pass between them.
No words need to be said.

She reaches out a hand,
Then the soldiers jerk his bonds forward to catch up with the rest.

IV

How thick the crowd must have seen,
O Lady of Sorrows,
as you threaded your way
in that numbing timelessness
that comes with crisis,
each second seeming to last minutes,
your son,
your son,
his beautiful face,
swollen,
bleeding, battered,
breaking your heart.

How much you must have wanted to scream
NONONONONO!
Don't let this be today,
now,
at this moment,
ever,
even though you knew he was given to you
for just this purpose,
and the sword you felt
had been fortold long ago.

How hard it must have been
not to throw yourself at the guards,
to some how get them to stop,
to let him rest,
to give him a chance
to change his mind
and make this all a nightmare.

And yet, you merely told God
Your will be done,
and continued on,
giving all you had
until the end
and darkness fell.___