STATION 8

JESUS MEETS THE WOMEN OF JERUSALEM


I walk behind the women of Jerusalem, unsure why we follow along.
This man who is bruised beyond recognition, seems wrong
For women to mourn for this thief as we now tread down the path
With guards slamming shields, showing swords, their growing wrath.

The women lament, their linen garbs drag on the hard, filthy ground.
Some beat their chest, some moan, some shake, all weeping their own sound.
Quietly quiet, I listen with shivers in midday heat,
Adorned with gold, dressed in blue robes, I walk with soft sandaled feet.

Most women carry a painful stare as they bow their heads to man ahead.
His body seen before the cross is mangled, bloody red.
Yet with the torture He’s endured He stops and turns to the women here.
His eyes are deep reflections of the women’s hurt, their tears, their fear.

The women cease their tears so to cry out “Savior!” to His face.
He nods His head and then begins to speak with a Godlike grace.
I curve my neck so as not to see but to hear his words more clearly,
Addressing them as Daughters of Jerusalem, He warns them dearly.

He tells the woe of cheapened lives, unwanted babes, ignored old.
Warning women of future crimes, such hate fueling those so cold.
With privileged air I stare down at these women who ever could be wild.
I stroke my stomach enlarged just so, and think to growing child.

This man foretells when people cheer for the barren in city,
Where the failing of humanity becomes normality.
Chills on limbs, I rub my fear from the way I feel of this belief,
He speaks as if to only me then He turns with my relief.

. “Dear sweet Jesus!” A woman runs with her child to His feet.
He touches head of child, smiles, then watches her retreat.
I watch the mourning, sad displays, as my babe stirs, kicks, then wakes.
Inside my womb my baby turns perhaps I have made mistakes.

With wealth of knowledge, tender thought, I watch Jesus go to cross.
Mist of tears fall from my face, with ladies I seem at a loss.
We come to the place with the painful disgrace of how we all fail.
One woman takes my hand in hers, as we start to pray, I wail.