As they remove my Son from the Cross child, be there with me. Know my pain. Know my peace. I am here child, to show you the way to His Heart. Reflect now on your Lord being removed from the Cross after being so cruelly crucified by His beloved children. All, child, were touched by this scene—good and evil alike. All who stood there after death came to my Son, remained briefly as my Son was laid in my arms. In grief child, I received Him. John laid His head on my heart.
“My beloved Son, oh how I love you.” There are no words now, only grief, only mourning over one lost who was only Love. Love, now lay in my hands, my arms, at my breast. As a baby, He laid there. Now once again, I hold Him in love, yet grief. Not the grief of eternal despair—no—grief for the loss of my beloved Son—His love to the world, now quiet. No one knows. None understand but me, and I, only to the extent my Son allowed and foretold. I understood but a bit. Compared to His Heart, my understanding was so small. But I love child, all. Knowing what they have done to my Son, my God, I love yet. Yet none come to comfort me but a few—Simon Peter, John my beloved new son, Joseph of Arimathea, and his wife. A few, child. A soldier remains—He who pierced the side of my Son with a sword. As the blood and water poured forth, his heart was purified in love. He knew then, his God. Too late to know Him in the flesh, but now as new life awaits, he will be born into new life—yet now he grieves with me.
My face stained with tears, my heart broken and torn in grief, my love poured out for my Son. But now, child, I must be strong—strong to carry on the new way my Son has made—but no understanding is made known yet to the heart. The Heart of the Beloved of mankind, is dead now to the world—dead in spirit, dead in truth, dead in love. Death. Death brings forth new life; yet none understand but I, and I am in grief of heart beyond compare. Look what they have done to my Son. His wounds disfigure His face. His body, His wounds emit forth a perfume of love. His wounds penetrate my heart—each one I see—a new wound for me—a new wound opening up more grief upon grief.
But now I must go. It is time. But please, let me hold Him once more, remembering all the love He has given me. Do not take Him away yet.
[Men speaking] “He must be prepared, for the time is near. We must go. He must be laid to rest.”
No comfort for a mother so afflicted. No love. No tenderness. No joy. Just emptiness of spirit.
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