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.