© Jeanne E Webster. All rights reserved
Have you ever had “wondering” days
When you sat and reflected upon things?
Unique perceptions linger and laze,
And before you know it, take wings.
I was wondering about Mary today,
The mother of Jesus, our Lord,
How she tarried with intent to stay,
Heart and spirit of woeful accord,
On that day when they took her son,
Laid him down and nailed him hard
To a rough-hewn tree. It was done;
Thirty pieces of silver the reward.
She waited atop that forsaken hill
Weeping, wanting to hold her boy.
She knew that his body they did kill
But his spirit they could not destroy.
His ravaged remains lifted off the tree;
Mary’s tears mingled with his blood.
Softly she cradled him ever so lovingly
As the soil turned into a rich red mud.
His corpse was taken to a sepulcher near
And wrapped with ointments and spices.
Mary trudged home spewing Sabbath tears,
Her heart crushed into a thousand slices.
I wondered today if underneath all the dirt,
That hill still preserves hallowed mud,
Evidence of Mary’s godforsaken hurt:
Her tears mingled with Jesus’ blood.