Do Not Weep for Me

Throats on the Sword's Edge 02 of 06

 

Do Not Weep for Me

 

The pain, the pain, the pain

my head throbs with burning pain

burning waves of searing pain

my back be raw and aflame

hands and feet cannot move

scream with the nails driven through

am panting, for iron bands seem to squeeze

around my chest to suffocate me

so hard to breathe, every breath be agony.

So too with the thieves on either side

one who cursed and screamed now moans

silent be Damian who asked I remember him

even the executioners at our feet

now are too bored to jeer and mock

the Romans wager on thrown dice

as those who bayed for my blood

with Barabbas and the ghouls

have gone to taverns and houses of shame.

The sun, the blazing sun beats down

my lips are blistered, throat be parched

tongue be swollen, and I thirst so much

nay, old Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus

my trusted and dear old friends still true

water, water be not thine to give to me

but ask the Centurion for mercy to show

though he be half-blind and worn with care

perhaps cool water he will give in pity.

Oh, mother, beloved mother do not weep

do not weep for me but behold thy son

standing next to thee whose name be John

and John my dearest brother still so stout

look ye at she who stands so stricken

yet for me so strong at the very end

gazing tenderly up at me but with

much suffering in her haunted eyes

John, she be Mary, now thy mother.

Oh, my eyes, my eyes

the blood has flowed into my eyes

all be red haze and I cannot see

I am wrapped and racked with pain

my body be on fire, cannot breathe

my mind be wandering, let it end

Father, forgive them for they know

not what they do, yet no more do I

and what have I done amiss?

Father, why hath thou forsaken me?

This terrible dying be so slow

it be so very, very long

yet, Father, even when all has come

to this and even though now I doubt

thy will and not mine be done

ah, it be so hard to breathe with the pain

in my chest but thorns and nails are numb

now must lift my head up one last time.

Lo, the daylight fades, all be dim

storm wind from desert blows dark clouds

to snuff the blazing sun above my head

ah, at last, at last no more pain

final minute be here ... seconds now are falling

I am so very, very weary ... ah, let it end

Father, into Thy Hands

I commend my spirit

it be finished!

 

Over the years on Gather, I have published 10 Easter poems - some of them in a series.  I thought it timely to republish six poems from the collection - one per day until Easter Sunday.  I will use the same series title as I did before.

 

See also:

Throats on the Sword's Edge

01 Rope and Tree