Writings by Carmela P.

Formerly "Mel's Musings" but do to many authors with name of Mel - changing to "Writings by Carmela P."

Friday, March 07, 2008

Meditations on the Passion

Your Agony in the Garden

Lord, I punish you mentally. My sin causes you anguish. I have delighted in evil and have ignored you, Sweet Jesus, immeasurably. Look what I have and am doing to you. Your agony is my fault. You sweat beads of blood. The evil one lurks and hovers over you because of me. The vulgarity and stench of evil slithers all around you, who are all Purity. You are human and Divine. You are making a way for my soul and I am overcome with remorse for my sins that have and are causing you this horrible agony. Forgive me.

Your Scourging

You are dragged to the place where switches are waiting. Soldiers with no reverence badger you with merciless jeers. Your hands are tied together and your balance is thrown off with their shoving you cruelly. Finally you arrive for the scourging that you do not deserve. They throw you against a splintered pillar and with each lash the crude leather slices your flesh. It was me, Lord, who beat you mercilessly with my sins. With each raised hand that came crashing upon your back, such was my sin, ripping your skin so that no unbeaten flesh could be seen.
O Lord, I am sorry.
Forgive me.

Your Crowning with Thorns

As your battered body leans against the stone wall of that dank dark cell jeering soldiers approach you with a thorny crown which they press upon your precious head. The thorns's points break the skin of your scalp and forehead. It was I who cruelly crowned you, Lord, with the full force of my sin. Blood dripped from every point that pierced you. You suffered for me. I am ashamed for having put you through this. Forgive me.

The Carrying of Your Cross

The cross not gently applied lays heavily upon your back and shoulder. Slowly with scourged skin, painful crown, and dried blood you painstakingly drag that cross over each cobblestone and with each step the cross digs deeper into your shoulder. You fall, not once, not twice, but three times. You catch a glimpse of your afflicted mother and your eyes meet briefly. Such sorrow a mother has not known and such sorrow a Son has not known for his mother. You move on but barely. If Simon of Cyrene had not been summoned to assist you with the cross, it was feared you would die before your death upon that cross. I was your cross, Lord, with the full weight of my sin pressing unmercifully upon you. I am so sorry.

Your Crucifixion and Death

The soldiers grab the cross from you and let it crash hard to the ground. They strip you and throw you down upon that crude cross. With nails as big as spikes, we hammer them into each of your hands. My face is stained with your precious blood, O Lord my God. Then we move down to your feet and hammer the spike into them. Lord, your cries are like a knife driven into my heart. I can't imagine your sorrowful mother's pain. Then, we hike you up high and as the cross settles brutally into the hole your whole body is yanked crudely. Lord, what have we done? What have we done to you, God's only begotten Son, Mary's Son? We stand around the foot of your cross and realize by your stripes we are healed. You were punished for our offenses and you have died, opening up heaven to those who were waiting to be admitted.
Lord, I am not worthy. Please forgive me.

Please, Lord, do not give me what I truly deserve,
but the grace to celebrate your Resurrection on Easter Sunday.

O Lord, we await your Resurrection.

© Mel Patterson, 3-7-08