Thursday evening I attended a service during which the main event was a foot washing done by the priests for twelve men from the community (one of which was a guy from my program who has been singing in the choir with me).
Tonight members of Orvieto took a "Via Crucis" around the town. We held candles and walked through the streets to places that represent the fourteen stations Jesus took from the moment of conviction until his burial. This was such a beautiful thing to be a part of.
I want to share with you two poems that are a meditation on the Passion and all that Holy Week represents.
A Maundy Thursday Service
Gray sky about to burst into a violent storm,
It is just as I imagine it to be in Gethsemane
And later at Golgotha.
I enter sacred space.
Carved Via Crucis line the walls,
The choir sings “Hosanna,”
Priests wear gold robes.
Old friends embrace, a past of
Shared struggles in their eyes,
Shared comfort in each touch.
How difficult it must be for frail bones
to maneuver these pews.
But faithfully, they receive the elements.
Water is consecrated to clean the feet of twelve unworthy men.
The priest begins. Every kneel, every limb extended,
A sacrifice. The stench of freshly removed boots,
Like dusty feet that have traversed all Jerusalem.
There is no glory in washing another’s feet.
A kiss on the foot,
A reminder of how unworthy the apostles were,
How unworthy we all are,
To receive the gift of a King.
Eager children pass out bread and flowers:
His body, broken,
Hope in its redemption,
Accessible to all.
I want to weep.
I think of You.
How did you remain composed that night?
When you knew
How your body really would be broken like the bread in your hand,
How your blood would spill, like wine burst from its sack,
How your faithful disciples would be driven by fear and
Hand you over for gold,
Attack the soldiers with violence,
Deny you.
You spoke to them, but they did not understand,
You really are the Holy Prophet.
On that eve of darkness, could you see the light?
At the table you spoke those timeless words,
But in the garden you wept,
sweat and tears, you wept.
This is a drawing in the chapel at the Palazzo where I take classes. This is a depiction of the Eleventh Station of the cross, Jesus being nailed to the cross, and is the inspiration for my poem.
The Eleventh Station
It has been a long journey already.
This is the beginning of the end.
Jerusalem fades behind him now,
None of them knows the temple is about to be destroyed.
Soldiers hold the on-lookers back.
We have captured the “King of Israel,”
The Pharisees supervise, arms crossed in disdain.
“Let him save himself now,” they scowl.
“Hold his arm! Grab his leg!”
Laborers lower his body.
They choose three nails for his hands and feet.
This work is not pleasure, tying down the Son of Man.
They feel the pain pulsating through his veins with each blow
They have no idea how those nails
Will pierce the hearts of generations to come.
“Father, take this cup from me
before the state destroys me.
You could deliver me.
To these nails and to your will, I submit.”
I stand in the chapel and I see my face
in the Pharisees’ pride
in the laborers’ fear.
And I, too, have pierced his hands
and again I will fall and puncture his side.
But in his face, I find comfort.
It is not fair,
but it is grace.
These are moments from the Via Crucis through the streets of Orvieto. 
did you write those? they are very powerful! thank you for sharing
ReplyDelete