Meditations on the Stations of the Cross
Poems re-telling Luke’s Passion Narrative
by Rev’d Clare Gye Coates
Jesus prays at Gethsemane
Gethsemane
garden of flowers
and hope
let me seek your refuge
and pray
for I need my Father
tonight.
My friends are here
beside the rocks
sleeping
though I begged them not to…
I need them
as I pray
to keep awake
yet their eyes droop
as I lie
in my Father’s absence
Why can’t you hear?
I see the nails
thorns
the tree
blood
fear
wrenching
life draining away
how can this be His will?
How I long
to pick these flowers
bathed in my tears
bury myself away
remove this cup of suffering –
I know you can!
You can do anything, Father
can you hear…?
red
white
blood
death
Yet not my will, but yours Father
I surrender
myself
to you
and through my tears
I reach out
flower petals
falling
through my hands.
My hour has come.
Jesus is betrayed by a Kiss
I stand, pause
at the threshold.
He is here.
I hesitate –
this is my closest friend,
my Lord,
my saviour
But
He is not who I thought he was.
He betrayed me.
I thought he was the one
as he turned over tables
cast out demons
trapped the scribes
and healed the sick.
As he washed my feet with love
I believed in him
but I was wrong.
Force and violence overcome those who oppress us
not love
passive
turning of cheeks embracing our enemies.
No.
There he is.
Pacing as Peter sleeps
and John and James
yet where are the others?
I step
across the threshold
into the garden
my arms wide in embrace
‘Rabbi’
silvery steel clanking
boots stomping
I pull him into my arms
and kiss
his dear cheek
his eyes, so sad, thoughtful
look into mine
and my heart breaks
as they pull him away;
betrayed by a kiss
they lay hands on him
and I stumble, run,
what have I done?
Jesus is condemned by the Sanhedrin
I am still
silent
as they
compete to condem
I am he
the one you see but do not perceive
hear but do not comprehend.
I am
silent
still
awaiting
death.
Peter denies Jesus
I warm my hands
head bowed
eyes, straying
to the man
my friend
my Lord
Surrounded
kicking
spitting
blood.
I look away,
move my hands
into my pocket
‘You are one of his friends!’
a girl stares
as I shuffle away
no
I do not know this man.
The fire crackles.
‘Yes, you are – I saw you with him!’
No.
Not me.
I do not know him.
I shift,
the flames
scorch
the back of my hands.
‘You know him.’
I do not.
A cockerel’s call pierces the darkness,
I look up
and see that he is looking
straight
into my heart.
The fire scalds
inside
as my heart shatters
into a thousand cuts.
He was right.
I did not know myself at all.
Blackness
engulfs
as my tears
dissolve
into nothingness.
Jesus is judged by Pilate
This man stands before me
as his people yell ‘crucify him
crucify him. Crucify!’
I wash my hands and turn away
it’s not my fault Jesus will die.
Jesus is scourged and crowned with thorns
He is jostled
pushed, pulled
this way and that;
they spit.
He is stripped
gouged, beaten
forced to his knees;
they press
a crown made of sharp thorns
down
and onto
his head.
He is yanked
back
up by his arms,
his legs giving way;
they kick.
Stand up straight.
His blood
flows
in copious drops
of thick, red,
blood spreading
endless bleeding
falling
like rain drops in a heavy shower
Hot, fresh, plentiful
the thorns pressing
as he is pushed, pulled,
this way and that;
a soldier’s woollen cloak
thrown
over his shoulders;
a reed, thrust
into his hand;
they bend at their knees
in mock obeisance;
then hands strike
at his fair skin
torn
by the thorns
and fingernails.
Sharp blows
falling
as fast as
his blood.
Jesus carries the cross
The wood
bears the
wounds
of those
who have
walked
this way
before me.
Blood
dried
streaking
in small rivers
collating
in the rivets.
The weight
of expected death
unbearable.
They lead me out
to crucify me
and make me carry
the cross.
Sharp, crushing;
heavier with every step.
I stumble
Scrabbling in the earth
sweat
forcing my eyes
to blink;
yanked
back up
time after time;
stumbling on
to
what awaits.
Simon of Cyrene helps Jesus
I watch
from the sides of my eyes
desperate not to be seen.
Yet
I am drawn
to
this man
struggling before me.
He falls,
is kicked,
spat on,
his crown of thorns digging into his battered head
blood oozes out in rivulets
streaking
and blinding,
mixed with his sweat
and the dust.
He rises
falls
immediately,
the cross beam
crushing
into stunned silence.
He cannot go on.
They will not be deprived
of their spectacle
and search the crowd
as we look away
Please God, let them not choose me.
But strong arms yank mine
force the wood into my hands,
kick me forwards
with this broken man;
its splinters
embedding into my hands.
I take this weight
carry his burden;
a strange peace
descends
burrows
into my heart.
We do not speak.
I walk by his side,
and as I follow
I see
I do not want to be anywhere else.
The Women of Jerusalem
He stumbles; we surge forward
tears cascading, drowning our wailing;
hearts ache at this sight.
We tear our coloured veils
frantic, exposed to heat and fear;
he stops, looks at us:
“Do not weep for me
save your tears for yourselves; for
your sorrows will be more.”
Jesus is crucified
Jesus
stripped, bare;
arms stretched wide;
feet bound, bloodied, bruised;
nails hammered home, cross raised.
Jesus promises the Kingdom to the penitent thief
Jesus
remember me
when you come
into your kingdom; forgive
me, for I have sinned.
Save
me from
the darkest abyss
I am tumbling in
adrift from all that is good.
I
see who
I am, and
acknowledge my own guilt.
Jesus, remember me, welcome me home.
Jesus dies on the cross
The sky darkens. Black.
No light; no breath; no sound but
his agonizing cry:
“Father, why have you forsaken me?”
His hands, his feet. Nailed.
Body wrenched by his weight,
the nails, big, hard, rough,
drawing him to death
bit by bit
protracted torment. Continual suffering-
his garland of thorns
dyed red with his blood.
He hangs suspended
dying
from the inside.
Alone.
Pale- blue – dark blue – brown:
the colours of death
tumbling into deep dying.
He shrivels, dries,
blood seeping into the wood.
And he finally shudders
Sun shrouded
in blackness.
He cries out:
“It is done.”
Jesus is laid in the tomb
Dead.
His body
wrapped in perfume
and laid to rest
in the darkness and silence.
Cold.
Air chilly
he lies alone
enclosed in deep darkness
the stone shutting him in.
Dark.
No light.
We are waiting
bitter grief drawing tears
reality hitting home: he’s gone.
Silence.
That night.
No birds singing.
But as he lies
dawn is about to break.
Jesus is risen from the dead
Early.
Sun. Pale
shards of light
illuminating the tomb’s emptiness
linen cloth wraps discarded hastily.
Birds.
Sing sweetly,
darting, swooping, dancing,
ushering in new day
and they come to see.
But.
He is
not here; for
he is risen! He
is going ahead of you.
Go.
Tell all.
He is with
us always and forever
our risen Lord, master, friend.