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?

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