The three came forward (Mary each by name),
Along with John (apostle whom you loved),
They gently lowered your limp, lifeless frame,
Akin to how a newborn baby’s hugged.
Your mother cradled you, holding your head,
Her thoughts snapped back to you in manger trough,
Her baby — son — messiah was now dead,
The Savior of the World in vain, cast off.
Such sorrow and compassion flowed to you,
Her pose Pieta-esque for quite a while,
How to make sense of all that you’d been through,
So many wicked things and horrid trials,
Your mother offered up to you her pain,
As sky broke open, thundered, and it rained.
Tim Bete, OCDS, is editor emeritus of the Catholic Poetry Room. This poem is from his third poetry collection, Translation of Wonder, following The Raw Stillness of Heaven and Wanderings of an Ordinary Pilgrim. His poetry has also been published in Presence: A Journal of Catholic Poetry, Mount Carmel magazine, Apostolate of the Little Flower magazine, and by the Semi-Province of St. Thérèse of the Discalced Carmelite Friars.