I do not want to be here. In this place
of dying Light. Across the breath of time into eternal certainty, I
stand. Dying saviour, grieving mother.
I want to reach out, but what would
they think? I am here observer. I do know the man. Yes, but quietly,
reservedly. I imagine the feel if His feet, reach out with
imagination to the now paling in the chill air. Death, not yet defied
or conquered, creeping.
Mary numb does not join her son's moans
of pain but echoes the agony of separation in every fold and turn of
her body. A body which held – theotokos – a body which is pierced
now by the promised sword of prophets telling.
The cry will happen soon, she sees it
coming – it is so very nearly finished. And like a child she turns
and sobs into my shoulder
“Me too, oh God take me too.” And
all I can do is hold her there and stand waiting for the end,
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