19 April 2011


Tenebrae. The service of shadows. Silence. Candles, going out one by one as the Passion is read. Reflections. Prayer. Allegri's Miserere.

Pouring oil on him: my gift of myself, my life, my substance. The chink of coins changing hands as I sell him out for my greed. Kissing my master in betrayal. Torches and violence. Sneaking along after him and watching from the shadows. Do I know him? "No, I've never met the man!" A cock crows and I remember and weep for my weaknesses.

What has this man ever done? I wash my hands of his blood. I take the blood on myself, my guilt, my loss, my fear and my tendency to run away. I hold the whip and flog him. I carry his cross. I nail him to it and laugh at him there: "Come down from the cross! You said you'd save us: save yourself!" I watch and weep. I hear his compassion to those around him. I see him die. The temple curtain is ripped as his body is ripped. "Surely this man is the Son of God."

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