pictured words

a simple pairing of pictures and poetry

Tag: Crucifixion

AND I (ode to John the Beloved)

Image by Bronisław Dróżka from Pixabay

The last twenty four hours –
bearer of agonizing anguish
and hideous horror.
Had I known what was to come,
I would have stayed away –
far away
from you. 


And I
would have safeguarded myself
from this enslaving loss.
I would have listened
to your compelling lessons –
your world-altering truths.
But I would have kept my distance

… and I,
I would have sat not at your feet,
but the foot of the hill.
I’d have sought your perfect rest,
but not at your breast.

And I can’t think of Judas
and how you knew.  You knew.
And how Peter did just as you said –
denied you. 
Three times denied you,
and I …
I wouldn’t have believed it.

The others you called,
scattered.
Frightened.
Confused.
Afraid for their lives, perhaps.
And I, myself, afraid.

But the women … oh,
the women …
how they were there for you today
along Golgotha’s way!
They wiped your wounded face
listened to your howls of pain
watched your mother’s horror
wailed
until your life left
and your silence spilled.

But the women remained
(chained to image and sound
that will never be loosed)
 – produced a ceaseless cry.

The women,


and I. 



© Marie Elena Good, 2021


In response to Robert Lee Brewer’s 2021 April Poem-a-Day Challenge at Poetic Asides (Day 2: Write a What does the future hold poem).

THE WOMEN WHO WAILED

eighth-station-2

I wish I knew who to attribute this to.

Who were these women,
walking the path with Jesus,
this innocent man?

This One who showed them
they were not to be trampled –
thought as second class.

This One who showed them
they could learn and understand
scripture, and His words.

Who were these women
who did not turn away as
He was crucified?

Exhibiting strength
in their engulfing anguish –
strength I cannot know.

Facing the horror,
these women were not silent.
They howled in their grief,

but also in their
denunciation of this
slaughter of virtue.

Inconsolable,
but not without perception,
and not without hope.

As they witnessed His
final words, were they surprised?
This man that they loved

wasn’t just a man.
Even the centurion
who observed His death

exclaimed, “Certainly
this man was the Son of God.”
My Lord, and My God.

Through their mourning eyes,
did they sense that this dear man
was their Messiah?

Forgive me, my Lord.
I would not have had the strength
to attend to You.

Lamentably, I’d
have worried, crying to You
from my peaceful home,

averse to falling
apart with the sufferer.
(Forgive me, my friends).

© Marie Elena Good, 2020