At the foot of the Cross stood the Magdalene with Mary, his mother, and John. Jesus was now in extremis- the curious people had gone.
The mark of the whips were upon him, an ugly bruise under his eye. Blood filtered down from the crown made of thorns. dripping down from his face to one thigh.
Mary watched as her eldest was dying. Bore her pain with incredible calm. She wished that, his agony over, Sheβd hold him once more in her arms.
With breath that was labored and shallow He spoke with his life nearly gone He commended young John to his mother And commended his mother to John
He looked at the Magdalene sadly With a love thatβs ineffably rare. Then with loud voice he cried out to Heaven A fool might think this was despair.
Joseph of Arimethea came with a ladder near dusk With the help of the Priest, Nicodemus He took the crucified Son from his Cross.
Mary was silently weeping at the body of Christ in her arms. She looked at the King Pilate murdered. Whom the people had greeted with Palms