Source: Carl Winderl, Ph.D., Professor of Writing at Point Loma Nazarene University in San Diego, California.
Theotokos
I'm "The Mother of God"
at the foot of the Cross clutching at
Simeon's sword impaled in my breast
where the blood of despair trickles
betwixt my fingers
as the sword pierces next
my heart, my mind, my
soul, my very being there
washes me
in the blood of the
Lamb, again, as at His birth
while the rabble twist and turn the
blade with their jeers and scorn, and
their catcalls taunting Him to
save Himself, let alone the world
til only me, I'm left with just
His striped God-forsaken Body. I
sink to my knees, praying
my prayer no doubt
my doubt that true to His Word
He will
do what He said He would do,
three more days hence; and my wounds
will be no more. Forever.
on Good Friday afternoon
on Good Friday afternoon, or there-
about when they stretched
My Son to cool
the heavens clouded o'er with
opaque, lethal smoke choking
the eye of the sun
from the Fathers above, and below
though the leaded sky was
not a nebulous phenomenon but
a simple reaction:
(HCN + [CO2 + O2 + N] + a) 6 x 106 @ Ks F
yielding a noxious gray holocaust sky
and the rains came that eve
in single carbon droplets fell
from the eyes of souls winging above
not from despair but joy
for the long-expected Messiah had come
and gone
to prepare a place for them.
When My Son raised Lazarus from the dead
he never forgave Him
oh, . . . his sisters
loved Him more than before
but Lazarus never got over
being
called forth from His Father's
presence, since
a sparkle in the eye, the warmth of
a hug, a tug on the heart, hearing
his name -- 'Laz - a - rus?' --
whispered There aloud would
never be . . . the same again here; oh
yes, I know the feeling, for
His Father breathed in me
once
and I've
never been the same
nor has the world, and
although My Son lived (and
died) to forgive him,
and loved
his sisters in return
I now know . . . of all the miracles
My Son performed
that's the one I'm ever
Three of the above poems, as well as several others, have been published in Mary Speaks of Her Son: Poems by Carl Winderl (2005), by Finishing Line Press of Georgetown, Kentucky. The Marian Library has a copy.
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