The stations of the cross - Bill Denham

[Larry Robinson]

The stations of the cross
 
The stations of the cross are set—
            so, too, the visions
            of those few parishioners
            who come to worship
            this Good Friday evening.
            Three thunder-loud percussive shocks—
            the scepter strikes the floor
            and space cracks open 
            that here and now, all these centuries gone, 
            his words might still be felt and heard.
            His simple words, then, illumined by a scripture passage
            and a silent meditation, framed by clear bell tones.
            There follows an offering of other words, mystic ones, 
            this time turned visual by a dancer’s supple body’s moves,
            a second time of silence, then,
            a longer time of sharing,
            and simple singing,
            together, as one by one,
            in single file, this row of souls
            makes its reverent way
            from this station
            of the cross
            to the next
            until their
            ritual is 
            done—
            until it
            is finished.
 
 It was the time of sharing,
            that made the worship real:
            dour and dark one voice,
            rainbow light and wistful another
            a fear of death in each
            spoken, embraced or left unsaid,
            measured and melodious, another
            even in futile effort to bare a wound
            that could not be born
            before these few
            nor before the cross itself,
            thoughtful, redolent of real hope
            this other worshiper’s words—
            hope found for him in the personhood of god.
            Jewels, all, these spoken words, before the cross
            and smiles and laughter too were there 
            and memories brought back from childhood
            and from Latin liturgy sung—
            and there it ended in beauty
            with an offering—unsought, unplanned—
            a gift of grace—a single voice, 
            singing, in love, the Latin tongue—
            Gregorian in its feel and subtle melody—
            singing the beauty of the tree,
            the beauty of that very tree
            from which the cross of Christ had come,
            that once living tree, now felled and dead, 
            that bore, this night, those centuries gone,
            his dying body.

      - Bill Denham




"Be joyful though you have considered all the facts."
    - Wendell Berry
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