Holy Wednesday, 2025

A poem

In this year of our 
Lord—it is still His—
This week called "holy"
Unfolds like always.
Meshing sin and death,
Life and joy, within
Rehearsed observance.

Scenes of that last week
In Jerusalem
Played back for us in
Grave intonations,
Hazy images,
Make us squint; tell us
Too much about us.

Tables overturned,
Temples purged of
Greed, fruitless figs cursed,
And in the middle,
Mary, blessèd one,
Upending manners
To anoint and weep.

And this year, dear God,
This year, I stop and
See her gift afresh.
I see how one so
Crushed by grief and sin
Would spend a whole year
Of wealth on a prayer.

I see how nothing,
But nothing, can make
Right what is wrong with
The world that is of 
This sad-sick world, but
Throwing yourself on
God's feet might just work.

He might just save us—
Does save us—but we
Fear what they might say
When matted hair flops
Back on our heads and
Perfume curls nose hairs.
Will we do it still?

Will we speak the names
Of stolen people,
Dishonored autists,
Mothers with AIDS, and
Every one who, like
Mary, cries, "Lord, make
My sorrows lovely"?

I was born the day
Martin Niemöller
Died and I wonder
If he did not speak
From embarrassment,
Saving face instead
Of bold-facing grace.

If, perhaps, he knew
What Mary knew but
Waited for a time
When it would cost less
And that time never—
Because when is it
Ever easy—came. 

Crucifixion with St. Mary Magdalene and St. Etheldreda by Margaret Edith Aldrich Rope, Cambridgeshire. Photo by Amanda Slater, CC BY-SA 2.0