GOOD FRIDAY NIGHT
The
wild mob was quieter
than
this tomb crying: “Death”,
their
angry shouting hurt His mother
less
than Mary’s sobbing.
She
cannot leave Him to this strident silence:
who
cherished songs at evening,
loved
best of all the music of her voice.
That
three days’ wait will bring
angelic
choirs
is
only prophecy.
Tonight
her Little One
sleeps
here alone.
Sister M Julian RSM
In: The Refuge of Beauty. 1954
48
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