Behold, the Lamb!

With my heart, I see.
I see only the Victim, darkened,
Darkened by impunities, though not His own.
Snuffed, yet not as dim as a smoking candle.
I hear the cry of mankind,
Deafened by the tears of a Mother, so pierced with sorrow.
I see a Blood, so Precious;
Abandoned, It falls.
I see and hear but can do nothing.
Oh, how piercing is the humility, as the lips of a mother, purely soft, depart from the Feet of such a Sacrifice;
The Mother given over to the Father’s will.
“Not mine, but yours.”
In the shadow of her Mantle,
Consoled I rest, for even she, the Victim’s Mother,
Is unable to bear forth her shoulder,
A shoulder so accustomed to the weight of a crying Son,
A joyful Son,
A weary Son.
He thirsts.
The milk of her comfort, not for Him anymore,
But for mankind, parched,
Unable to recognize its own void.

Mother so tender, yet fierce in her pain.
Her heart is pierced once more.
The sons of men placed in her embrace,
An embrace which hushed the cries of the newborn babe,
Nursed the child in His first days, and,
Soothed the boy, the young man, the Man in His agony.
Her eyes once up, now turn toward man,
As Her Son takes the breaths of encroaching death.
To Him, her eyes wish to go, but the earth is waning;
It needs a Mother.
He draws His last breath while she is tending.
The Son is gone, the earth is dark.
Spear thrown down. His love consummated.
His Blood flows, as well as water.
Trickling, it flows through dense, cold air.
Pity, yet Dignity, pours forth. A reminder to the Virgin of her wanting children.
Still, she pleads once more to fill her arms with her Son, though dead.
His bones unbroken, His wounds pierced.
She wants to cling, to never let go of the fragrant, pure Victim.
In her gaze as a Mother, she cries to man,

“Behold, the Lamb. Behold, my Son.”

The blue sky is darkened, no more is uttered.
No Ave’s come forth.
The angels are silent.
A silence awaiting the Rising Son.
A darkness.
It is a darkness which only allows for the light.

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