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.