Feast - Our Lady of Sorrows

and a sword will pierce your own soul too 
Gathered into my arms
As bloody and helpless as the first day.
The warmth of your mortality leaching away
Into the ungrateful earth.
I glean my treasure trove from all that remains.
The smell of skin, a childhood scar,
Calloused hands,
Earnest dark eyes
Fading now.

Rememberings
Of your cheek against my breast,
Arms around my neck,
hands entwined in hair.
Not this remnant of humanity
But my heart’s pride,
My Son.


wordinthehand2010

Comments

Covnitkepr1 said…
I’ve enjoyed looking over your blog. I came across it through another blog I follow. I am now a follower of yours as well. Feel free to look over my blog and perhaps become a follower of it also.
16 September 2010 at 11:56
Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Sacred Spaces - St Patrick's Well

Image
I live on the Wirral, or in the Wirral or in Wirral depending upon your sense of geography. It's a small peninsular in the North West of England about 10 miles by seven; the River Dee separates us from the Roman city of Chester and the hills of North Wales; the River Mersey from the city of Liverpool and motorways Northwards.  Out to the West, Liverpool Bay leads into the Irish Sea and across to Ireland herself. Theoretically, I am told, it's almost an island as two ship canals come to a point where you can step from one to the other but the transport links of motorways and trains seem to defy that particular definition. Across to the Welsh Hills The Wirral is still mostly suburban or countryside, originally part of a hunting forest that was planted in the 12th Century. It has been home to Roman, Saxon, Viking and Norman settlers. Pre-Roman it was home to a Celtic tribe called the Cornovii and there is evidence of Christian Celts from the the 5th and 6th Centu...
Read more

The servant’s name was Malchus.

Image
Easter Midrash  An imagined story of Good Friday  "The servant’s name was Malchus." John 18:10 The servant's name is Malchus. I am not dead yet, rather, far from it. I don't know how others felt when they were healed but the inside of a miracle is a place of light and clarity beyond any new dawn. The complex weaving of skin only reflecting the myriad unravelling of thoughts and memories below the surface. Paths of life's story being made straight. My name is Malchus. Named by my mother. Her bedtime tale that I was named after the appearance, in Jerusalem, of regal scholars from the East. Magi seeking a king who had not yet been born. A slave herself, she had stood holding a lamp as the temple priests and scribes argued amongst themselves; no-one wishing to tell Herod that the prophecy was not for his line. When I was born just a few days later, I became her little 'king'. That's what Malchus means. I didn't thank her for it. Growing up ...
Read more

Footsteps of Francis

Image
The Hermitage - Assisi Who knows how long a walk? Wrong shoes, no directions, no water in the middle of the day- the faith of a fool. But there is an intent for this walk - a journey towards a leaving behind. The ego, the little I,  the needy needing to be needed;  and for what? To prove that I am ‘good for something’; that I have a right to exist? God’s been doing the hard work again –waiting - waiting for me to recognise myself in Him. To realise that I may be an outsider but I am not outcast – not from God’s Love; not from Christ’s Body. To know that being ‘useless’ means being available to the Spirit’s desire. To understand that I can only be ‘useful’ to God by being empty,  by being vulnerable. And. Lord, seeing this, knowing this, does not make it easy.  Not for a Martha like me. But in this sacred space filled with the humility and devotion of Francis  I may find my own place at your table. So I thank you, Lord, fo...
Read more