It's abit surreal recounting the Way of the Cross in the middle of the sea.
As Pontius Pilate dipped his hand into the bowl, the clear water turned black. I watched the Man-God dragging his feet on the ground, carrying that heavy wooden execution device. I wanted to make His load lighter, I wanted to carry a heavier burden. A subtle joy appeared in my heart. I saw a mother share her son's grief, the astounding understanding and trust she has in Him. Back in St. Peter's Basilica, I see Veronica holding the cloth with His face imprinted on it. The sky was dark, but it was not as dark as the cross. It was like a magnet, attracting all that is sinful, dark, and uncertain. And it was on His shoulder. The surroundings were noisy with meaningless cries and jeers, weeping women and shouting men, all jostling to see the fall of their celebrity.
The painting was wide and many figures were depicted vividly in the scene. However, the painting was in grey, except for Him and his mother. His disfigured and bruised body was on the ground. She was only a tiny bit in the picture. A veiled head was all I could see, but her eyes were painted with such compassion that it became the focus of the painting. I prayed for her, and she acknoledged thanks for my belief, by giving me a firm press on my shoulders. It was a blur after that. As if the scenes were numbing along with His heart, I hear the queasy hammering sound of nails in flesh. The Passion was the last movie I should think of, but I recalled the part where the soldiers couldn't lift the cross proper. A destitute and hopeless voice rang out "Eli Eli Lama Sabachtani". It was a human voice.
People were dispersing, and Calvary seemed like the loneliest place on Earth.
As Pontius Pilate dipped his hand into the bowl, the clear water turned black. I watched the Man-God dragging his feet on the ground, carrying that heavy wooden execution device. I wanted to make His load lighter, I wanted to carry a heavier burden. A subtle joy appeared in my heart. I saw a mother share her son's grief, the astounding understanding and trust she has in Him. Back in St. Peter's Basilica, I see Veronica holding the cloth with His face imprinted on it. The sky was dark, but it was not as dark as the cross. It was like a magnet, attracting all that is sinful, dark, and uncertain. And it was on His shoulder. The surroundings were noisy with meaningless cries and jeers, weeping women and shouting men, all jostling to see the fall of their celebrity.
The painting was wide and many figures were depicted vividly in the scene. However, the painting was in grey, except for Him and his mother. His disfigured and bruised body was on the ground. She was only a tiny bit in the picture. A veiled head was all I could see, but her eyes were painted with such compassion that it became the focus of the painting. I prayed for her, and she acknoledged thanks for my belief, by giving me a firm press on my shoulders. It was a blur after that. As if the scenes were numbing along with His heart, I hear the queasy hammering sound of nails in flesh. The Passion was the last movie I should think of, but I recalled the part where the soldiers couldn't lift the cross proper. A destitute and hopeless voice rang out "Eli Eli Lama Sabachtani". It was a human voice.
People were dispersing, and Calvary seemed like the loneliest place on Earth.
Raphael's Deposition (The Entombment), 1508, 184 x 176 cm, Oil on wood, Galleria Borghese.
