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There is an essence about this silent spring morning
that feels to me different, as though
somewhere hidden within the cool, dewy sunlight
shone a secret that I ought to know.
I enter the garden, which smells overly sweet,
and laden with flowers too bright
to match with the pain that darkens my heart
burdened with sorrow and fright.
The grief washes o’er me; I am there once again;
to my knees on the soft grass I fall.
The man on the cross that desolate day
was my Savior, the Lord of all.
The soldiers arrest him, condemn him to death
for wicked lies and fallacy.
They crown him with thorns and tear off his clothes,
let him stand for the whole world to see.
On his bruised, bleeding shoulders they then press a beam
of the cruelest rough, splintery wood.
He accepts his undeserved fate
with patience, as only he could.
This inhumane torture procures an uncommon response
from Jesus, harshly crushed ‘neath the weight.
His eyes, richly dark, seek me out in the crowd.
Shining from them is sweetness, not hate.
His mother, Mary, who stands beside me
can no longer restrain her tears.
Though she is silent, the large drops of sadness
convey clearly her faith--and her fears.
The long line processes, marching on
with a devotion true and free.
We stop at last atop a high hill,
the last hill, Calvary.
The soldiers bid Jesus to lie down on the cross,
and humbly he obeys.
The nail pierces his flesh; the sky starts to weep
on this, the most dreadful of days.
They are now nearly finished; the cross stands upright.
At its foot we gather to stand.
Above us our good, gentle Jesus looks down
and, wincing, points with his right hand.
Bound, of course, by the nails though he is
his message is simple and clear.
He speaks to his mother so low and so soft
that I must strain myself to hear.
“Woman,” he says, gazing at his mother,
then his disciple, “behold, your son.”
“Behold, your mother,” he says to John.
With those words, his work is done.
Slowly, slowly creeps the time
as Jesus writhes in pain.
Mingled with our falling tears
blood and sweat drip like the rain.
At last he takes one final breath
and raises his eyes to the sky.
“Father, into your hands I commend my spirit!”-
his last words, a dying cry.
At that moment, sheer blackness envelopes the earth,
the crowd fades and starts slowly away.
“Surely, this man was the Son of God,”
I hear a soldier say.
The mist of my memory disappears
as I survey the tomb to see--
the stone is gone! they’ve taken him!
“Oh, Lord, where could he be?”
I hear light footsteps approach behind me,
the gardener, I know.
“Lady, why are you crying?” he asks.
I divulge my tale of woe.
“They’ve taken my Lord,” I confess in tears,
turning to face the man.
“Do you know where they’ve placed him?”
I ask, as clearly as I can.
A timbre in his voice distracts me;
I begin to realize
that something is different about this man
and I lift my tear-filled eyes.
“Rabbouini!” is my joyful shout
as again to my knees I fall
for standing before me is the man who is risen
my Savior, the Lord of all.