Sometimes I wonder if, at the Cross,
Virgin all-Blessed, the quiet Daughter,
really contained all the force of loss
that man had incurred in wounded love.

Bloody and slaughtered, her Son did hang:
greatest, and cruelest of all our illness,
here on the footstool of God, the pang
of birth, of life, of death, was intermingled.

Far away, all the disciples, now;
Peter impassioned, thus drenched in fearing,
Judas so zealous, gone still; oh how
did man — such folly! — abandon his Only Lover?

Alone in the world, brought down to despair,
cutting and ripping away from communion;
yes, silent was broken communion, here;
grey were the skies, cracked was the earth,

alone was our Friend; He poured His isolation’s tears,
when darkness fell in all its pow’r;
and, Spirit near its going out, He Cried.

Where all had abandoned the Failure, the Battered;
The Mother to Child did whisper “I love you”,
hence Jesus breathed “thank you”, and died.


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