On the road from Damascus, I was one of many pilgrims
Walking to Jerusalem….for Passover, I had told them.
In truth, my dreams spoke of the one who had come,
Preaching of a Kingdom that had already sprung forth.
As a widow of great wealth, my words were met with scorn,
Forced to bare my head as the shepherds shear their sheep.
Wearing the burial rags of shame, I turned to that holy city,
With only a young servant, a child, to attend to my needs.
Of course I had heard of that radical rabbi from Galilee,
Raiser of the dead, who cast out demons and disease.
Now apostate, false Messiah, condemned to die,
Condemned much in the same way we women are.
At Golgatha, he carried the beam across his back,
Blood running from the crown like so many rivers.
My heart cried out to him as he fell, once, twice,
The third time, mere inches from me, the crowd roaring.
I saw then so much of my own suffering he shouldered,
For the first time, I listened to my inner vision, my soul song.
I felt HER pushing me to act, as she had so many times,
And I listened...I broke from the crowd, to offer comfort.
It wasn't much, to wipe the sweat and blood from his face,
I froze under the stare of his dark brown eyes...so wise.
Then, like a desert storm, he was gone from my sight,
My servant being my only comfort in my grief.