Oh, my son, my son! I cannot bear to look upon your suffering and pain! Your lips are so dry and parched in the heat! The same lips that sweetly whispered “Mama” as a child years ago. The lips that as a 12-year-old spoke to the learned men at the temple—teaching, even then, and doing his Holy Father’s will. As amazed as Joseph and I were, did I realize it would end such as this?
Oh my precious, precious child! Your arms are stretched out in agony. Those arms hugged me tightly when you were but a small boy. In manhood, those arms comforted my cares and failing strength.
How many, many others felt the compassionate love of those arms. Yes, even the children clamored to receive your hugs and gentle attention.
Jesus, my Jesus! How the nails pierce your hands! The blood flows as freely as my tears. Wasn’t it just yesterday I tended to your scrapes and cuts, and kissed away the hurt and tears? Oh, my son, how I long to do that today. The nails rip your flesh! I too feel your pain! For you are my flesh, my child, my son, and the Promised Son of God!
God chose me to bear His Son! At first I was confused and frightened, yet I realized I was fulfilling the prophecy of God. Among all the Jewish women, I was chosen to bear the Messiah. How great was my joy the night of your birth! Yet even then, I realized you couldn’t be completely ours, Joseph’s and mine.
As the shepherds came to worship you, I knew then as I know now, you are God’s Son. Your life belongs to more than me, my precious, precious Jesus.
Yes, I will go with John, your beloved disciple. Even in your pain, your thoughts are for your mother, my Son! I cannot bear to watch any more of your suffering. I know your Holy Father will watch in my place. He shares my grief. Yes, only He, can share my grief.
© Paula Kirkpatrick, 2015