Stabat Mater

Stabat mater,
tears make trails
across dusty cheeks.
Leading way to the mount's edge,
of what is a grieving face.
Crystallizing into marble--
forever on the verge,
of a sorrowful fall.

Thy son hath made us whole,
through faith,
and we shall be sanctified,
in times hereafter,
as thou art now, and have been.
He falls so we should no more,
Blessed are those, who sorrow for him.

Mine own trail through deep roots,
slashing away their hold,
through the night they fight to lids,
and upon the dawn,
fall with purity,
from lid to chin without resistance.
The only blue I have left in this world--
is that for the next.

How shall we stand and watch?
Behold, he carries his own death.
Falling.
Until a man helps carry his burden,
as we should for another.
And a woman wipes sweat from his brow,
as we should for one another.
And yet still we shall fall.
And though mothers and wives and daughters
should comfort and guide us,
still we fall,
and are beaten,
with seeming mercilessness.

Now he is stripped of all outer appearances,
and so we watch,
some part telling us to turn,
another unable to.
For fear of losing what it is we love,
and fear of seeing it destroyed.
Though fear should turn to dust soon,
we know not what it is that happens.

We, oh ignorant and disgusting men,
having rebelled against our Host.
Nefarious minds make for my tears,
and I beg there be another way.
But we are one,
and are fallen,
so mercy has come to make justice--
yet still I weep.
For worthy we are not,
though you come to make it otherwise.
The need makes me writhe in pain,
at my own kind,
at my own self.

Wounds are made,
and death slow.
Till life has left,
and body is taken down.
Stabat Mater Dolorosa,
son in hand,
in mourning,
as I am now.

I see the past,
as never before,
and in thinking,
my emotions open,
as a valve long rusted.
Its fresh waters,
run through years of grime,
built up on hard jaws,
cheeks solidified by the night,
who remain strong,
though eyes do not.