The study of Mark, session 1 of Christ on Trial, elicits the following meditation.
Lord, You are flogged, by Pilate authorized;
though innocent, routinely purged.
Silent, You are not surprised
You, the first to use the scourge;
money changers, animals of sacrifice
felt your wrath, your rage to cleanse.
Not justified, excusable nor nice!
Yet, no apology, no pleading, no amends!
Not a temple made with hands
Your body; perfectly God-shaped
where the temple was, now stands,
Godís purpose recapitulates.
Each lash bespeaks a thousand, thousand more
on us, from every cut, Your healing ointments pour.
Poems from the Eighth Decade
Copyright © Harold Macdonald 2004 used with permission
Harold Macdonald Poetry
Ashes to Easter