Christ,

wounded,

bloodied.

The face of Love,

marred.

Sweat and dust

mixing with the blood,

that He is spilling

from His heart.

The heart of God.

Where is the glory?

Why tears?

Where is the gold crown?

Why is this fear?

Why do I see Him crashing down?

Where is the triumph?

Where is the throne?

Who can save Him?

Why is He alone?

My love isn't enough.

My heart is quaking.

I feel the ground shake, 

when He looks at me.

His eyes to mine, full of grace,

my heart quivers and breaks. 

I fight to get to His side.

Through the hateful crowd, I fight.

His gaze penetrating to my

soul,

is too deep to meet. 

My cry of pity

sticks in my throat.

How dry it is!

how much drier,

is His?

As I get near, He lifts His head.

I'm losing my heart

in reckless abandon.

But what good do I do,

standing and staring?

His brow is creased.

His face torn and bleeding.

He is wincing

as salty sweat

falls down His cheek.

It enters cuts and wounds. 

It stings.

How can this be love?

Ripping off my veil, 

my covering,

I offer it to Him

to ease His pain.

My one comfort,

my one claim,

I give to Him to wipe His face.

Slow and caressing

His face, I try to clean.

My little service, for His need.

My only offering.

Does it give Him relief?

He pulls away, and moves on.

And I am left,

but left in awe.

His face of suffering beauty

imprinted on my veil

and on my heart.