The Crown

The Prince of Ages stood before the seat
Of him who barters innocence for fame,
Betraying the World's Wonder for a name
That lasts a day and withers with the heat.

"Is this the Healer of the blind and lame?
Does he not see that I can grant him life
If he'd but speak and bend and end the strife...
His Crown remains - who is this King of Shame?"

The thorns have tongues, and each with story rife
Of sorrow, sickness, sin and bitter guilt
Enmeshed and entwined, upon each other built
To rend the Dome of Heaven like a knife.

If Pilate could but see, he'd surely stand
To kiss the Crown stayed by a mightier Hand.

The Scourge

Hands bound and eyes upon
The ground, He is led in the
Manner of a slave - led, or driven -
But by whose hand? And where?

O Come, Come, Come...

This monumental meekness is
Something to behold - but no
Mother's hand tends him now, no word -
Perhaps He hears her sweet hum
Over the bitter lash's tongue.

O Come, O Come Let Us Adore...

The soldier's bloodless grip tightens -
At every stroke another river forms
And those who would not scorn -
Who stand aware of their iniquity,
The thousand ills that dwell within our flesh -
Can but see His Blood for what it is.

O Come, Let Us Adore Him...

He dares not lift His eyes -
Perhaps it is the pain. Or, maybe
He is once again at the bottom of the world -
Struggling to hide, with every rending stripe,
The radiant font where springs this Living Water -
The soul-blinding glance of His glory,
Not his shame.

O Come, Let Us Adore Him, Christ the Lord.

Gethsemane

The duress of sin - the weight of it
Falls in palpable shadows with
The Night. Pressing, Pressing,
Every deed forbidden and foregone
Adds to the scale of misery.
The sleeping men do not see
A Garden and a flaming sword -
The indignation and the wrath of God,
The countless streams of human tears
Distilled in drops of blood.
We cannot bear the load - the burden
Is too great...It beats, beats, beats
The soul to fitful slumber
Bringing all to dust and ashes.
But there lay One, God and the Image of God,
Wrestling with the darkness,
Heart sore travailed and every fiber strained
In dire anticipation
Of the greatest agony on earth.
In love He took the cup we could not wield-
O Bitter, Bitter Cup!-
And with the dregs of death he sate his thirst
For our salvation.
In humble might grasped He the brandished sword,
Wiped away the passion o'er his brow,
And rose to wake and warn his dreaming friends.

Watch your backs!

I just wanted to warn you all of an impending holiday. While I was searching for Irish-related festivals, I found this one yesterday and just had to post it. Some of you may be in more danger of becoming victims of this yearly cultural tease than others...so watch out!

Chalk Sunday...

This day is celebrated on the first Sunday of Lent.

Unmarried people are marked with chalk as they enter the church. Traditionally, Catholics were not allowed to marry during Lent, so they had to wait until after Easter. Marking them with chalk is a way of teasing them for not being married.

The first Sunday after Shrove Tuesday, was known as 'Chalk Sunday' and it was then that bachelors who should have been married were marked with a heavy streak of chalk on the back of their 'Sunday coats'.

This trick was perpetrated by boys who carried bits of chalk in their pockets and waited for their victims to arrive. They then proceeded to mark those who were bachelors, this was done while the congregation was assembling for Mass and after the trick was played, those who did the chalk marking ran for their lives, laughing and singing the words of some little verse they had made up such as 'And you are not married though Lent has come.'

Directly related to the escapades of Chalk Sunday was the distribution of the 'Skellig Lists'.

Off the coast of Co. Kerry lie the Skellig Islands Ð 'the last parish before Brooklyn'. On the Great Skellig Rock are the ruins of St. Finian's monastery and all those who should have been married before Lent were supposed to make a pilgrimage there on Shrove Tuesday night.

Research indicates that this particular ritual was just make-believe, but the Skellig Lists were as real as the chalk marks on an unsuspecting bachelor's back. According to custom, a local bard would compose catalog of all the unmarried men and women and this list would be circulated on Shrove Tuesday and for some time after, causing much discomfort and embarrassment to all those singled out for still being unwed.

Indirectly related to Chalk Sunday and the Skellig Lists is a game called 'Skellicking' that supposedly, boys in the city of Cork still play today. On the eve of Shrove Tuesday, they chase after a girl with a rope, two boys to a rope, and attempt to capture her. If she is caught, the boys try to encircle her with the rope and pretend to 'take her off to the Skelligs.'

(Taken from: http://www.irishfestivals.net/chalksunday.htm)