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.