The Pieta

The Pieta (4-1-08)

Awkward and too heavy,

Sprawled across a knee too small,

Lying precariously

And ungainly.

Ready to fall again,

Even after death.

The Pieta.

What have I done? a mother asks.

What have they done to you?

Why do they hate you so?

To torture your body

And my heart and mind?

And yet the knowledge was ever there.

A sword will pierce your heart.

Did she know exactly how?

Does she look resigned to the facts

She could only have been half aware of?

One hand lies loose,

Not holding on to the prone figure.

Not cuddling, as a mother would, an infant.

Resigned she may be;

For the face knows more than the two figures show.

The broken man is broken only in body.

His spirit lives

And sets us free.

She knows this but still her heart is heavy

For the child and the man –

The physical being she has lost –

Only to return ,

Physically and spiritually,

In glory and splendour.

Her honour –

An assumption into heaven-

Without death.

Having carried the one

Who carried

The burdens of the world

She sits in glory.

With the Father

And the Son

And the Holy Spirit.