Sunday, February 22, 2015

First Sunday in Lent: gleanings from my reading

O be it done to me.  He was her last
Of answers.  After Him no more was left,
And she'd be emptied, and the soul could seek 
No further full annhilate to add
For more surrendering of more. He was
Her end of giving, and the grant that  God
Would have of Him, signed in the opened Side,
would reach to her, to take her utterly!
And there'd be nothing then, and in her heart,
No more to give for more.   Image result for sorrowful mother

And this was not a night 
Of silver stars hushed all about a cave
Where Joseph's footfall and his presence made
A sweeter loneliness, and she was watching 
Over Him upon the straw.  This was 
A day that glared in the unrelenting light,
A hill with sweating crowds, a place that smelled
And wavered in the heat, and where he'd come 
With timbers on His back to keep a tryst
that was His own, and hers.  And she was here.
A figure lost and unregarded, one
Among a multitude, and muted, lost,
But here!  O here at this acceptance here
At Golgatha. She did not turn away.

John W. Lynch

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