Monday, 23 March 2009

• Pieta

  Here I sit, fallen beneath the crushing weight in my heart…
  my son, my firstborn, tortured, murdered as a criminal,
  blood and deformed, now resting in my lap as my heart too is pierced.
  what did you try and achieve me son?
  you were so good, yet too close to the line.
  I feared every day you might be killed,
  I saw the gaze of our leaders, I feared for you to God.
  And now, what does the preaching matter, it only angered them.
  what were you trying to achieve, trying to prove?
  We knew from the beginning you were good, you always gave.
  you put a mother to shame as I tried my best to care for you-\
  I was so young when you were born, so much a child myself.
  I had no quest to run on, nothing to prove, except obedience to my God.
  And my obedience, where has it brought me but to the hill of murder and desolation, carrying my Issac,
  where Yhwh did not provide a lamb, but drew His ruah from my son.
  I tremble as I touch you, my darling little boy,
  Your face still creased with deep lines of anguish.
  I have little time to hold you, the Sabbath is rushing upon us,
  and they take you from my arms, bind you with strips of cloth,
  and hide you away in a cold, dark tomb…
  this stone prohibits me from my mourning–
  my heart has been stopped up to, and like an empty shell
  I turn away with the other women, my god, my god, what have we done to you.
  So much I didn’t understand when you teached, I imagined you were immortal,
  You could lead our people to freedom, that Yhwh would not let you die.
  Now we must hide away from fear that they will seek those who loved you too.

  I’ve stopped doing my faith and become fixated on the thinking it out.
  It’s so worthless, digesting ideas does not nourish the soul unless they are encountered in substantial context.
  It leaves the contemplation weak and desolate. How distracted, the working out of life.
  It’s all about the loving, yet I don’t know what that means.
  Perhaps that’s because I’ve stopped actively running after it.
  The seeking after meaning drive doesn’t stop when I do; the path changes subtly.
  From moving out of self to drowning in self—
  Jesus, what does it mean to love? Words communicate little and much
  Offer deep comfort or spout meaningless facts that impact nothing other than egotistical intellect.
  My God, my God, how have I forgotten you.
  Once boiling and swelling with a vibrant passion, energized beyond belief,
  What has solidified and settled into this mass of stone, this pillar of salt?
  Here am I, a woman become the preservatives in which I packed my heart,
  Drowned in sorrow until the residue of my tears was all that was left behind.
  It was because my center escaped me by my fault, my own distraction.
  You gave me focus, and I ran away from you with it—
  The detail of a needle’s head seduced me into an endless expanse.
  O Theologia, how we have created you, to satisfy our every needs;
  O my Jesus, how we used to love You, now creating You in our images by words…
  We lose the heart of the God-Man come to woo us.
  We forgot Your passion, I replaced Your wedding band on my heart.
  Meaningless, meaningless, cries the teacher, all your reasoning is meaningless—
  For you have forgotten that to love God is to obey Him;
  To love God is to love one another.
  Distinction by love? We devolved to strife and hate long ago…
  Both outside ourselves and narcissistically within, dualism, believing we were too unworthy.
  And we are, but not anymore because He has chosen and we have been freed,
  To go out into all the world and love men like Jesus into the warmth of His heart.
  So what’s with our attraction to the shiny fetters and chains?

  Here I sit, dizzy and unaware, unsure of why there is so much blood,
  Such a heavy weight resting on me;
  It is a body.
  His hands are bloodier than mine, skin torn again and again
  By the multiple piercings of many nails,
  Back shredded to a pulp under the heavy hand of a whip.
  Why is this body on me, where is the cross is was fastened to?
  Remembering who, remembering where I come to my senses:
  This is the Lover, the one we all sought, the one I have killed.
  His blood is on me, I have made His wounds, I caused His pain.
  In my spite of a momentary fury, I destroyed the dreams, so I think.
  What have I done to you, Jesus?
  I cannot bear my own guilt, and darkness overcomes me.
  When I awake only the bloody imprint on my robes remains,
  He has gone, my loveless heart could not constrain Him.
  If I relinquish the death, He stands ready to give me the life I keep throwing aside.
  Can I bear to part with the guilt, in exchange for joy?

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