The Pieta

Photo Credit: jasonjenicke.com

THE PIETA

After the earthquake

the peals of thunder

the flashes of lightening across the sky

After the curious crowds dispersed

Mary sat in ominous dimness

upon a mound of earth

at the base of The Cross

holding the body

of her Son

She cradled Him

in the hollow of her lap

close to her bosom

as she had

when he was

her baby boy

Mary removed

thorns of mockery

that encircled His forehead

and tossed it to the side

Straining to see in the shadows

she carefully picked

fragments of thorn needles

still stuck in His lifeless flesh

although they couldn’t hurt Him

any longer

With her fingertips

she tenderly closed the lids

over His dark, vacant eyes

and smoothed

the disheveled, matted hair

…then she kissed Him

O my beautiful Son…

Tears flowed

down her face onto His cheeks

mingling with dried blood

With the edge of her garment

she wiped some blood away

John came

and rested his hand

upon her trembling shoulder

He was now her son

She was now his mother

Mysteries

too deep to comprehend

swirled in her mind

like the flap and flutter

of wings and overshadowing

Son of the Most High

and David’s throne

like pregnant Elizabeth’s joy

when the baby leapt in her womb

and the Baptizer himself, when grown

proclaiming his younger cousin

“The Lamb of God, Who

takes away the sin of the world”

and Simeon’s prophesy

that Jesus would be

a Light of revelation

to the Gentiles and the glory

of the people of Israel

Where is the Light?

Where is the glory?

Where is the throne?

Overwhelmed by sorrow

so intense it stabbed her

deep, deep in her inner parts

Mary cried out in anguish

and rent her robe

Was this what old Simeon meant

long ago in the Temple

when he held Jesus in his arms

and said a sword would pierce

my very soul?

O my Son, my beautiful Son…

I cannot fathom the ways of God, but

I do know this cannot be the end

Maude Carolan Pych