Mary Magdalene
Holding up her hands,
she did not know if she raised them
in prayer,
pleading,
or anger,
watching him die.
"O Lord, Master of the Universe,
let me wake up
and discover this is all a nightmare,"
she whispered.
His mother touched her shoulder.
Together, they wept silently,
tears rolling down their cheeks
as they watched
he who was the center of their life
slowly ebb,
blood drop by blood drop,
breath by breath,
moment by moment.
In all the frazzled weariness
that had made up so much of her life,
he had brought
the healing touch,
the acceptance and love
that had showed her the way to God,
those things she thought denied to her forever,
and here, her gentle master
hung unrecognizable,
yet without a word of anger
at those who misused him.
Ignoring the mockery of the soldiers,
she drew near as she could be,
collapsing in her tears,
her heartbreak,
her love.
How little she knew
how her tears and love would be rewarded
as her aching sorrow would turn to
amazing, bewildered joy
come Sunday morning.
The Shroud
How white the linen
they laid out
at first.
How clean the water was
in its ewer,
waiting to be poured.
How fresh the towel.
Loving hands though,
soon turned the waters
ruby red
in a vain attempt
to erase some of the terrors of the day.
Sweet spice could not wholly
cover up the smell
of blood,
of pain,
of death,
of the cost of redemption.
Loving hands, though,
wrapped the linen snugly
over his prostrate form,
as if in final gesture,
a last farewell,
letting the whiteness of the sheet
turn what color it would,
Loving hands
never knowing
what image
their care
would leave behind.