The seven last words: Woman, here is your son … (‘Crucifixion’ by Franz Stuck)

 

This mother does not stand at his right,

waiting and composed,

as the sword-point,

with surgical precision,

pierces her soul.

 

This friend does not stand at his left,

hands raised or clasped,

in frozen supplication.

 

They stand together.

The friend supports the mother,

clutches at her blue-robed shoulder

in visceral despair

as vision darkens

and all that they can hear

is the silence of the angels.

 

They are doing, and they will do what he asks of them.

 

And light transfigures his torn body,

streaming from beyond this

bloodied coin of a sun,

this tilting sky.

© Marion Adams 2016

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