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.