Stations of the Cross

Instead of a mass for St. Patrick,

Michelangelo's Pieta,
St. Peter's Basilica
(1498-1499)

the Stations of the Cross,
fourteen complete with readings,
prayers, Our Fathers, somewhat somber
singing that inspired sweet contemplation.
Christ's condemnation, then
the cross beam laid across his
shoulders of such weight he fell.
His mother, in the crowd along
the road, the urge to rush in, help
her Son, prevented by the press of
people all around. A passersby,
conscripted, picked it up to keep
things moving. Then a woman wiped the
sweat off of his brow before he fell
a second time. The women he had
taught and healed and helped began
to mourn. Perhaps it was the sound
of their despair that sapped his strength,
the falling yet again, so close, so close
to Golgotha where soldiers stripped him
of his clothing, nailed him to the cross,
and there he died. As clouds rolled in,
the faithful took him down, his mother
held him one more time before they
laid him in the tomb. The fifteenth
station,  not yet celebrated, has to wait
some weeks, the one that made all of
the difference, the miracle of resurrection
and new life. The miracle today was that
a church filled to capacity with high school
students who have trouble being still in
class could stand so long without
a whisper or complaint,
some unbelieving but respectful,
others quite accustomed to the words.
And halfway through, I took my
heels off and curled my toes into the
carpet, thankful that his feet
and hands were pierced for me, and
sorry there was not another way
to save me, save us all.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015