Behold, the Bridegroom comes
in the midst of the night.
And the night is coming to an end.
Holy is the person He finds waiting,
hoping, and believing. Blessed
and holy is he or … she.
And Miryam watched as He rode in,
crying in her heart when “hosannas”
faded, fearing believers would no
longer sing, but shout: “crucify him.”
So contemptible, undeserving,
pitiful is one whom the Bridegroom
finds - lax, heedless, and forgetful.
Here I am, absent, sinful, unbelieving
and nearly worthless. Overcome
by darkness, resisting Life … commend
my heart to the Mother so the wedding
can begin, and this night can end.
O, my soul, don’t be overcome by sleep!
Slumber transforms into death, and gates
of life shining through with Heaven’s light
will close, will lock, will never open.
Hold the Mother’s hand, who opened life
at Cana, and see as garden’s realm
behind her closed gates swing wide:
hear the Bridegroom calling us to enter in.
Revive yourself, awaken, and sing out:
Holy, holy, holy are You, our God,
protect us, give us your sacred guardian.
The banquet is ready, and Bridegroom comes
hungry, but poor fig tree has only leaves.
He storms (and yet his Mother believes.)
“Let no fruit grow on you again.”
Are we the fig tree, as He enters in?