Upon the cross against the hills of the night
They nailed the man, and while
they speared his breast they made him drink the bile.
He bore the pains alone, alone
But in the hallowed darkness saw
Sweet Mary’s face upturned in grief below.
Tears filmed her eyes, but love
chastened the tragic beauty of her face
which neither death nor sorrow could erase.
He saw and feebly in the silence strove
to speak a few remembered words:
but now the whispers left his lips
like tender birds.
His arms were cold and death
was in his eyes; the streams
of blood were dry upon the whiteness of his limbs.
His breath was like a wounded bird
wanting to stay, to stay, bereft
now Mary rose and treasuring
his sorrow, left.