Grief: Holy Saturday

I asked,

“What about my eyes?”

I will fill them with tears.

I asked,

“What about my heart?”

I will break it with sorrow.

I asked,

“What about my body?”

I will crush it and throw it away.


Holy Saturday, the day when death had occurred and resurrection had not. When all Jesus’s followers were left with was their pain and anguish. A long day indeed. Grey. No hope. Annihilation. Pointlessness. Futility. All hopes and dreams dashed and crushed like his dear beloved body. Now there are no answers…not yet. This is the time of anguished questions. Answers will come later.


They killed him. He is dead. My Love, My Lord. The only one who ever understood me. The only one who loved me. The only one who knew me. All those times we spent together, when he would speak to me of so many things, so many many things. I can’t breathe. I don’t want to be with the others. Most of them ran away and it sickens me. I stayed, clung onto his mother as we stood, a sorry inconsequential group of women at the foot of the cross, wrecked, weeping, helpless.  Why did the men run away, where were they as Jesus looked down at us, caring more for us than himself even then? The cross creaks you know, it creaks as if it is wailing and keening with its load.

I try to recall every word he said, every look that passed between us, when the air was alive with tension, and alive with Spirit. And all I can see is the matted hair, blood soaked, and I ache with an emptiness inside that will never be whole again. I know it. There is no meaning for me, no future without him. His beautiful golden hair that the sun danced off, matted with blood, his eyes so green with hazel flecks…bloodshot, tired suddenly, and seeing beyond our world. His strong tanned limbs that ran and danced and played with the children…broken, just hanging there…why? What had he ever done to any of those wizened old priests and rabbi’s? And Judas? Why, why, why, Judas? After all the time he spent with you, the care he gave to your family, the love he gave you…why did you betray our beloved Jesus? They tell me Peter betrayed him too, said he didn’t know him, three times; I ask you! Cowards all of them. Where were they at the end? He and I should have gone elsewhere ourselves, just upped and left, gone to another country, led a simple life somewhere else. Why did we not think of that? God? Are you there God? Where were you? Why didn’t you stop this? Are you even listening God? Where were you? Where are you?

I can’t breathe, I need to get out of here, to run and run like a mad woman, a woman possessed, not caring for my feet or gown…into the rain, to be swallowed by the wind, to be consumed by the elemental wildness of this continual thunderstorm, wild wind and lightning. I need to sink to the ground and for it to absorb me, hide me, take me from this pain. I vomit with pain, with anguish at the parting. I went to hug his legs to try and lift them to ease the pain when he was on the cross you know…but the soldiers, they dragged me off and threw me to the ground, laughing like hyenas at some stupid feeble desperate Jewish woman…making gross remarks about us and dividing up Jesus’s clothes in front of our eyes. I thought his mother would die there and then, her pain was the worst of all, this was her son, her baby boy. She had to be supported by John and I most of the time, her legs were useless, wouldn’t support her. Silent tears just flooded down her cheeks and she didn’t even bother to try to rub them away. They fell to the floor. She was soaking wet by the time it was over. Over…I can’t believe that word. Over. It’s over. Finished. So why has the world not stopped? Can’t it feel my grief? Or his mother’s grief? The light of the world has gone, all is utter darkness. I am not even sure if the world is still spinning. Is there no end to my vomiting? On and on, the waves of grief and hopelessness carry me beyond, I want to be where he is. I want to be with him again and gaze in his eyes, to hold him, to hear him. O My Lord, take me with you. I don’t want to live without you. I can’t do this, I can’t live.

I shall go to the tomb at first light, that’s what I will do…I will not tell the men, just a couple of us women, I will go and just lay down there and I will die too after we have anointed his body with the spices and oils. I will be with my Lord, he will take me with him. He will come for me, I know he will….yes, that’s what I shall do.

Mary Magdala.

Sorrow 2

Sorrow 1

Sorrow 3


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