Me invitaste a tu casa
y me dijiste:
“Siéntate a la mesa.”
Me serviste como a una reina
con tu pan de tu mismo cuerpo
con tu vino de tu misma sangre.
Hasta ese día me di cuenta
cuanto amor me tenías,
atendiéndome como a una reina,
haciéndome sentir revivida.
Con tus mismas manos me servías,
sabiendo que grandes llagas tenías.
You invited me to your house
“Sit at the table.”
You served me like a queen
with bread from your own body
with wine from your own blood.
I never realized till that day
how much love you had for me,
attending to me like a queen,
making me feel revivified.
You served me with your hands,
knowing of your own deep wounds.
*Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons, Paolo da San Leocadio – Christ With The Host
A few years ago, I was contemplating this interwoven connection between mother and child, love and ache, and birth and death. And finally my own pietà formed in my mind. Not in stone, but in words. A woman’s birthing experience and Christ’s dying experience are attuned to each other. She gives life through birth. He gave life through death. Salvation is a masterpiece.
The waiting room is packed. New life is coming.
The signs are here, but she thinks it’s too soon.
He knows it’s time, and he’s made it up to the right place.
Her mom is there, an eager helper. A loving nurse.
His mom is nearby, trying to breathe. A nursing pietà.
She gushes red as muscles scream in biting rhythm.
He silently counts the time between the clangs.
She’s cut open to speed it up.
He feels her pain in his side.
She asks for water.
He gets the vinegar.
Blood and water, spirit and form burst out from her with a jubilant scream.
He’s hung to dry.
The firstborn son is welcomed home.
*This poem was first published on Andrea’s personal blog.
** Image: the “Pietà” by Michelangelo, Saint-Peter’s Basilica, Vatican City.
Grey clouds, a backdrop to skeleton trees
who bend and groan from the bitter breeze
As frozen crystals swirl around
life of every form slows down
A colorless realm, muted and dreary
souls are heavy and winter weary
But somewhere in my beating heart
warmth is coming, a growing start
a literal and figurative change in season
renewal is rising up without reason
I am a crocus, who blooms amid snow
hopeful, resilient, watch me grow.
*This poem was originally published at: https://thedispencery.wordpress.com/2018/03/01/crocus/
I wonder how You rose:
bright eyed, leaping to Your feet?
Did You open Your eyes, smile, and
enjoy the weekend morning just a little?
Or like a missionary:
groaning as the alarm buzzed 6:30
rolling right on to Your knees
*Image courtesy of Wikimedia commons. Alsace, Bas-Rhin, Église Saint-Étienne de Bilwisheim (IA00119125). Maître-autel néo-baroque (1912): tableau “Résurrection du Christ”