Posted on 03/24/2005 7:50:16 PM PST by Knitting A Conundrum
Meditation on Christ's Passion
When you prayed in the garden, Lord,
and the heaviness pressed all around you,
as the full moon's light peaked through the olive trees,
and your apostles snored in the shadows,
and you sweated blood in the depths of your grief,
how heavy did today weigh on your shoulders,
with a war-torn world,
mad with bloodlust,
despising your peace,
hot with hatred and selfish fulfilment
sometimes done in the name of God,
or done in the name of self,
careless with all you have taught?
When they tied you to the pillar, Lord,
and scourged you in the Roman way,
a beating so severe that it alone could take a life,
as the weights at the ends of the whips,
and the heavy slap of the leather tore your flesh,
did you see the babies ripped for profit,
the innocents blown up to make a political statement,
the slaughtered millions killed
because they belonged to the wrong class,
or bloodline,
or culture
or faith
or country?
Which gave you the most pain -
the cruel leather,
or the knowlege how we would reject you?
When you walked that long walk
with the heavy crossbeam tied to your hands
as they paraded you and the others
to the Place of the Skull
amid a phalanx of proud and hard Roman soldiers
who hated the noise and the crowd and the foreignness of it all,
and took out their spite by tugging your bonds
and watching you fall with arms extended,
and when you saw your Mother there,
and the aching pain passed between you,
did you see all the other mothers
aching in their pain for what evildoers would do
to their sons and daughters in the days to come,
mothers of the disapeared,
mothers of political prisoners,
mothers of those slain by bombers,
mothers of the beaten and kidnapped,
mothers looking for children buried in mass graves,
mothers who watch their children starve for others' gain?
When they nailed you to the cross,
and hung you up to die the slow death
reserved for slaves and foreign traitors,
gradual suffocation
in hot, aching, painful breaths,
did our evil make the pain that much harder?
Did our lack of mercy and love
echo down the centuries like a pressing weight
making your sacrifice all the more painful?
And yet, still you managed to love us,
and gave us all you had left,
your mother,
your compassion,
your heart's blood.
Dear Lord,
Forgive us!
As Jesus suffered on the cross from noon until three, so does Terri Schiavo suffer in her own private hell, unable to protest as the state murders her.
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.
Meditation on Jesus about to be Crucified
The last moment
when you stood upon the ground,
felt the dust beneath your feet,
and had the dignity of your clothes,
blood stained and dirty though they were,
did the women who offered you
wine and myrrh wonder at the gently look you gave them,
and the firm rejection
of the small mercy they offered?
Did the soldiers who prepared for your death,
hard men, they,
at your side since the procession began
wonder at how you were diferent,
as you calmly gave them the last of your wordly goods,
garment by garment.
Did they notice,
and did it make them angry,
that you,
who should have been cringing, cursing and crying
calmly waited for the next wave of pain.
Did those travelling into the city that day,
who could not help but see the executioners at work
call out in recognition,
in pity, or in scorn
as the soldiers
threw you to the ground and took out their hammer and nails?
Good Friday bump.
Did those who stood by you that awful day
tell you not to look,
O Lady of Sorrows,
As he was thrown to the ground,
naked, battered, bloody,
stretched out upon that dreadful crossbeam?
Did you cling to the Magdalene, O Sorrowful Mother,
as the Roman guards,
methodical and professional,
put those large square nails against his wrists,
hit hammer against nail?
Could anything prepare you
for the cries
ripped from his throat
as they finished their task?
How hard that final rise was,
Step by step up the hill,
how hard you had to cling to life,
how hard you had to cling to consciousness,
hard hard each breath,
each jarring step.
Even with Simeon carrying your cross,
the ground came swoop up,
and you tasted the dust,
felt the pavement one last time,
falling one last time
to panic the centurion
into thinking you would die
before they could kill you..
Only your burning love
burning like an eternal flame
echoing down the ages
stood you up that last time,
pushing away
the effects of shock,
and dehydration
and beating,
to crest the hill
for your final glorification.
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.
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.
How hard the wood rubbed against
your bruised and bleeding back,
how hard the iron
that made your arms
throb with excruciating pain,
how the thorns dug in when you held your head fully up,
a symphony of pain
whose depths I can only vaguely
imagine,
how hard it was to see
the Magdalene there,
weeping her heart out,
your aunt,
and especially,
your mother,
who watched every moment,
sharing your pain
as you moved into the darkness of death,
but could any of these compare
to the wall of separation
from your Father
that our sins,
the sins of the world
placed between you,
until, bereft of everything but pain
and the approach of death,
you cried out
like a child longing
for the parent
he couldn't see.
All this for love.
To Mary, Mother of Sorrows
O Mother of Sorrows,
how often I come here and kneel at your feet,
and see those sorrow-filled eyes
staring up
at the suffering and battered
face of your son,
and still,
you are able to take my hand,
and give it that little squeeze
that says, Have courage.
O Mother of Sorrows,
How often I come here,
and weep all my misery out on your shoulder,
filled with guilt and grief and remorse,
knowing full well the burden
that I have laid on your blessed Son's back,
and still you hold me close,
and comfort me.
O Mother of Sorrows,
How often I have come here,
wanting to comfort you
in your sorrow and your loss,
and found myself overcome with remorse and sadness
over what your son
chose to do that I might live,
and find myself comforted by the one I longed to aid.
O Mother of the Word Incarnate,
Thank you for despising not my petions,
but in your mercy,
hearing and answering me.
On the Road to Jerusalem One Friday in Spring
Surely he has borne our griefs
and carried our sorrows;
yet we esteemed him stricken,
smitten by God, and afflicted - Isaiah
Those coming into the city
may have wondered about the small group
on the hill,
wondered idly about who was being executed
so close to the sabbath,
and at the feast-time, too.
Perhaps they shuddered at the thought
of such a shameful death
coming to them or theirs.
Perhaps they felt pity
that anyone would die that way.
Perhaps they stopped a moment to taunt.
Did they notice
a knot of women
standing close,
oblivious to the soldiers,
or to the mockers,
lost in their grief,
waiting?
Did they notice
how the sky darkened,
as if even the heavens
longed to weep?
Suspended in that place
where heaven and earth meet,
an offering of
love unfathomable,
marked by the red liquid of life
given up in sacrifice.
You wait there,
feeling the life you give
ebb away drop by drop,
throb by throb,
swallowed up
by others' sin,
you,
both scapegoat
and sacrifice,
a poem of love,
a sign of contradition,
Lord.
Meditation on the Death of Christ
I know not why you chose
this way
to show us your love,
to embrace a slave's death,
a death of public humilation,
torture and pain.
I know not why you chose
to carry the rough wood
that your hands knew so well
how to shape and form
into so many better things
than a tool of torture,
or why you let them
pierce you,
but this was your choice.
O Lord,
let me never forget
that you really walked those steps,
felt the blows,
the roughness of the wood,
the pain,
tasted the blood.
You were there,
and you did it for love,
abandoning all,
until you felt even abandoned by the Father,
nothing left
but our sins,
the pain,
and the darkness of death.
What greater love story ever
was composed upon this sad earth?
Behold the Man
Behold the Man! say Pilate,
wishing to make you look small,
frail,
worthless,
nothing for the authorities to worry about.
Behold the Man, say the nonbeliever,
wishing to strip you of the power of God,
to make you safe,
ignorable,
worthless,
nothing to worry about.
Behold the Man, say some,
wishing you were the person they want you to be,
ascended master,
apostle of hate,
elder brother,
letting your message be nothing to worry about.
Behold the Man, say I,
Wishing to follow you with all my heart,
True God and true man,
who lovingly laid down his life
to bring us all home,
let me proclaim clearly,
Jesus Christ is Lord!
This in the Name of Love
O my Lord,
what is man,
that you are mindful of him,
what is man,
that you would join him,
walk the earth along side of him,
taste the dust,
feel the heat,
experience the cold,
know the fatigue,
joy,
sorrow,
loss,
frustration,
and this in the name of love?
O my Lord,
what is man,
that you are mindful of him
that you would learn
to earn your bread
by work of your hands,
how it feels to grieve
at the loss of a parent,
to see the sorrow and fear
in the eyes of those who love you,
and to do this in the name of love?
O my Lord,
what is man,
that you would see his evil first hand,
feel the bite of it across your back,
know the pain of the torturer's art,
feel the blood flowing out of your body,
the bite of iron
tieing you to wood,
the breath that comes in ragged gulps,
harder and harder,
the indignity of a public death,
the death of a slave
or traitor,
and all this in the name of love?
O my Lord,
what is man,
that you would take upon your shoulders
all the sins
of an old and wicked race,
all the hate and greed and lust,
all the crime and anger and pride,
become so corrupt
for things you have not done,
that the weight of it
is incomprehensible,
and atone for it in your own blood,
and know so many
would walk away from you,
unmoved by what you would do
in the name of love?
In the folly of God's love
for a wayward mankind,
I am redeemed,
and bow down in grateful adoration.
Alleluia!
Lord,
let me find refuge
always
at the foot of your cross,
where you bled and died
so that I might live.
Only here,
beneath the cross
where you shed your blood
can I find refuge
from the darkness.
Only here,
beneath the cross,
can I find refuge
from the wages of sin.
Here at the foot of your cross,
I pour out my tears
like the Magdalene,
tears of grief at what my sin has wrought,
tears of sorrow for what you chose to do,
tears of grief at the need.
Here at the foot of your cross,
I stand with your sorrowful mother,
she who I once wanted to comfort
for her pain,
her sorrow,
her loss,
but who sustains me as I collapse in grief.
Here at the foot of your cross,
I confront the reality of my self,
sinful,
weak,
undeserving,
and find not the condemnation or rejection I deserve,
but only love.
Dismas 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?
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.
The Shroud
How white the linen
they laid out
at first.
How clean the water was
in its ewer,
waiting to be poured.
How fresh the towel.
Loving hands though,
soon turned the waters
ruby red
in a vain attempt
to erase some of the terrors of the day.
Sweet spice could not wholly
cover up the smell
of blood,
of pain,
of death,
of the cost of redemption.
Loving hands, though,
wrapped the linen snugly
over his prostrate form,
as if in final gesture,
a last farewell,
letting the whiteness of the sheet
turn what color it would,
Loving hands
never knowing
what image
their care
would leave behind.
Good Friday Night
O Blessed Mother,
O Lady of Sorrows,
How dark that night must have been,
when they led you home
from Golgotha and the tomb.
Did you find yourself
staring numbly
into the dark,
seeing the sad day's moments
playing over and over
in your mind,
as the quiet tears
trickled down your cheeks?
Did they gather together,
one by one,
the scattered disciples,
afraid of each noise
yet not knowing where to go,
except towards you,
all they had left
of their master?
Did they come to hold you in your grief,
or come to be mothered?
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