A-Poem-a-Day
Until Resurrection Sunday
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| Image credit: blogs.nd.edu |
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
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