by Patrice M. Wilson
I. Pilate Condemns Jesus to Death Innocence curls up in a tight ball, Takes the fetal position in His heart After fatal words have been spoken. This is how life ends, This is how it begins. II. Jesus Accepts His Cross Something tells me in my soul That I must carry a terrible burden, More than the weight of my own death. Mother, I hope you do not see me like this but you are surely l somewhere in the crowd. When I was younger, I carried Cut lumber, nailed joints together. I cannot judge all the carpenters That fashioned this cross, But deep in my heart, Because there is sky, I know someday I will. III. Jesus Fall for the First Time A Taunting Bystander: “See, you rogue— You haven’t the strength For the full heaviness Of your own treachery. Get up, Son of God, Claim your rightful heritage. Arise and let the sun See your wretched face In the shadow of your cross. Let your God Prevent further falling— See, as you slip There is no soul To assist you. IV. Jesus Meets His Mother Mary: As I look into your face, I see a boy grown Into this horrible age. For thirty-three years I Have followed your footsteps, New steps always, As if you constantly Began your life With journey. When you were one, You walked For the first time. At four you stepped On a nail— I tended the wound. I thought “accident” For that stray nail In the back yard— What should I think now? When mothers give life, They also give death— My son, can you forgive The onslaught of this night? Yet when the Father gives life, It never ends—I cannot rejoice Now, but maybe some soon morning Will give you back to me. V. Simon the Cyrene Helps Carry the Cross They fear you may die early on the road. They want your life ended at the end, Not now. But surely, they don’t want me— I have no claim to godhood. Why should I do this for them? Yet the Roman soldiers command; I have no sword in my hand, Only your sad face that grips my heart. VI. Veronica Wipes the Face of Jesus Veronica: I wept as I ran to Him, stumbling up the street to Golgotha. My veil and I decided To offer Him A sort of torn towel. He looked into my eyes, The holiest of faces Imprinted on my heart. Later I found traces Of that visage On what used to hang From my head. Lord, God, I wept again And not only my heart But also my whole self Kept his great love As their only covering. VII. Jesus Falls for the Second Time Once again, Your knees and hands Meet unholy ground, splitting Your skin Jarring Your bones, this unholy ground, Hallowed now by Your unexpected touch. VIII. Jesus Meets the Women of Jerusalem Like everyone, We have so little to give You— Our tears, our children, Whom, as You said We will weep for. From the dark clouds, The lightning, and the rain Of God that will come When you die, A beautiful blossom Whose stem we should like To pluck it from Will be covered with thorns. IX. Jesus Falls a Third Time Three is where I come from, Trinity of My Life, Myself. For a third time my face Is in the dust; I can hardly budge this crossbeam strapped against My shoulders. O God, You own the dust Of earth, the stones That will make My tomb. I know my death will Not be quickly done. Each step begins my agony Over and over again. X. Jesus Is Stripped of His Garments I write of giving, Of the inability to give. They took from Him— Think of this—even His clothing. What indignity we would suffer Without even one item Of all our outer garments. O Lord, let my soul be naked Before you always, As Your stripped body, About to die, was sinless, Even then. XI. Jesus Is Nailed to the Cross There is no love In nails through flesh, Iron through the delicate Tissues of hands and feet. How could they have done this? The same question we ask Each time sin Seems to be the winner. We each would have died From the first hammer strike— No, even before then, When the orders were given. Love, give us back our bodies, Free of pain and death. And yet you did do that— We will rise with You And in the mean time, We will never be the same. XII. Jesus Dies on the Cross “O death, where is thy sting?” (I Corinthians 15:55) It is there With Jesus, Nailed to the cross, Dying. XIII. Jesus Is Taken Down from the Cross Pietá The sword that shall pierce my heart Is now. Your birth was so much easier, I held you in my frail arms, And you kicked and cooed like an angel. Your grown life, now without breath, Stiffening, cooling. My heart is wiped out Of my breast, where you rested your Head so many times, so many years. Let my heart stop—it has no more words. All my fears have stolen You from me. I have followed You everywhere, But this place hardens me Like the wood from which they just Took you down, to my helpless arms. XIV. Jesus Is Laid in the Tomb He went where we go. Lord, take us where You go. Lead us beyond Grave matters, to the light Beyond Your body in the tomb. Wake us later, with You In the open garden, Free to grow any good flower That blooms into a lovely life, For you, not for us. You Who went where we go. Lead us to the angels.
Born Catholic in Newark NJ, raised in Catholic schools, Patrice M. Wilson has a PhD in English from the University of Hawaii at Manoa, having earned her MA there and her BA at the University of Maryland, College Park. She was editor of the very fine Hawaii Pacific Review for 16 years while teaching at Hawaii Pacific University. She has three chapbooks of poetry with Finishing Line Press, and one full-length poetry collection with Christian publisher eLectio Publishing. Dr. Wilson recently spent five years in the cloistered Carmelite monastery in Kaneohe, HI. She is now a retired professor living in Mililani, Oahu, HI.