What miracle of holy heartache could
inspirit so a painted piece of wood?
Remembering Simeon she yearns to speak,
yet keeps her counsel: with sepulchral gaze
unblinking brood those dark Byzantine eyes.
Cheap candles veil her in a votive haze
while, close beneath her tarnished halo, hides
some awful thought or secret not to seek.
Again Good Friday, and again she shows
herself the Mother of a Son who died,
for her possessing sorrow overflows;
a single tear of pity, not despair,
glints suddenly within the sooty glow
and swells, and courses down, transfixing slow,
the fractured pigment of her olive cheek
from wells of grief too great for her to bear.
No-one can shield her from the piercing sword,
no-one console her for her suffering God.
What miracle of holy heartache could
inspirit so a painted piece of wood?
Martin Briggs is the son of an English Methodist minister, but has been exposed to and influenced by Catholic thinking and culture all his life. He began writing seriously only recently, after retiring from a career in public administration. In addition to the Catholic Poetry Room, his work has appeared in Areopagus, The Dawntreader, Reach Poetry and The Road Not Taken. He greets readers and fellow contributors from Suffolk, England.