Dear Readers,
Here is another Good Friday addition. This, like the poem "I Will Take It All," just came to me. I hope it brings you some good. God Bless.
Best Regards from a Bookworm,
Miss Pookamonga ;-P
Pietá
Before You were born, I carried You.
Not in my arms, but in the safe, warm Ark of my womb.
When You were born, I wrapped You in cloths and carried You. In my arms for the first time, You didn't make a fuss. You hardly ever made a fuss.
As You grew, You would fall. You would bruise, You would break, You would cry, and I would pick You up and carry You, rock You until You calmed and everything seemed to fade into Peace for You.
I would carry You and sing, and You would sing along. I carried You into the workshop, where You played in the sawdust until it got into Your eyes, and then I would have to pick You up and carry You to water so I could wash it out.
I carried You when the three of us would lie outside and look at the stars. I carried You even when You had the courage to run away from me on legs that couldn't balance well. I carried You even when You were older and didn't need to be carried. But I didn't want to let You go.
I carried You when we visited Your Father. I held You in my lap when You would talk to Him at night before bed.
I carried You in my arms, cradled You, and wrapped You in Your blanket when the days were done. And then I laid You to sleep and kissed You goodnight, and waited for the sun to rise.
Now I carry You once again, although You have grown. Now I wrap You in cloths, but not because You are small and frail and cold. Now You cannot make a fuss even if You wanted to. Now You cannot sing along with my song. No more sawdust, no more stargazing into father Abraham's sky. No more visits to Your Father.
You have fallen, You have bruised, You have been broken, You have cried.
And now, my Son, I lay You to sleep and wait for the sun to rise.