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.