Cold Stone

(A reflection inspired by Jesus’ passion)

Rough, cold stone
The bed on which I lie
Jagged, porous, dry
Soaking up every drop of blood
Falling from my face, worn, confused, and tired

How has it come to this?
This rock I am leaning on
In fear, in the garden
Too much to accept, too much to bear

Sturdy, hardened, broken
The stone pillar that holds my chains
As they scourge in anger, enjoyment
With cruel hideous smiles
Lashing out against me, flesh and bones no longer one,
Again and again and again and

Malicious weapons, these hateful stones
Cast, thrown, forcefully striking my body
Terrifying shrieks of twisted and perverse pleasure
The empty hands unable to receive
What I have to give
If just a loving, bloodied gaze

Hanging, hanging, a cross secured
By the rocks and unfeeling ground below
The same ground that rose to meet me
Exploding, many times before
Offering its excess of gravel
To remain lodged in my open and gushing wounds 

My blood dripping, beading down
To the forgiven ground, the earth
The hearts of cold stone
All standing in need
Of what they do not know…
They need to know
What I have to give
More than fatal cries and human blood
… The love of a God!

Rough, cold stone
The bed on which I lie
And the silent walls of this tomb
Until I rise
After giving my life for these