Palm Sunday (Liturgy of the Passion)
I could not bring myself to die.
Betray, deny, err: I know these
to be all too human,
but to die, and along the way
give up power and the rightful
claim of innocence —
which I could not make —
takes a divinity and humanity
I do not own.
I would lash and rage
against these injustices,
and hold my breaking body
as long as strength allows
together. At the dying of the light,
I burn all I can for any
lengthening of my day.
But the sun must set.
Into death, he enters,
moreover,
into dying,
the anguish of betrayal,
the pain of abandonment,
the heat and disgust of
torn flesh and flowing blood.
Into weakness,
unable to carry his own,
last possession.
Mocked.
Cursed.
Forsaken.
All that I fear and strive to keep at bay,
with accolades, titles,
and the building of empire,
He accepts, and drinks
the cup, the acrid
vinegar of an all
too human life and
death.
He brings himself to
nothing.
Victim of an oppressive empire,
of human greed and
jealous rage,
of this entropy and
materiality.
He gives up his ghost,
surrendering, and dies.
He who breathed the breath of life breathes no more.
From hosannas to a hole, his body is consigned.
And around the corpse — that should be me — a guard is set.
They keep their watch.
Can I keep mine?
Jeremy Heuslein
The
Crucifixion with the Virgin and Saint John, Hendrick ter Brugghen,
1588–1629.
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