Art thou not the Jesus we know?
The carpenter – old Joseph’s son?
Then wherefore believest thou thyself
transformed into the Chosen One?
Little of true wrath survived
in he who spread the wings of love;
yet that familial mockery
(sent, I must assume, from above)
poisoned everything I achieved
thereafter. What was Mary’s line
in suddenly quitting the past
and denying what was mine
as announced by the Lord Himself
through (could she forget!) the angel?
Thirty doting years, it seemed,
had proved long enough to change all
sense of herself and of her Son.
No wonder I turned my back
when they appeared at Temple
seeking me out. And then the lack
of support at the very end…
Michelangelo be damned:
only in John does Mary come
to the Cross, and the door is slammed
in her unweeping face when I
give her away to the “disciple
whom I loved”, and off she goes
with him – even the Bible
fails to produce a shred of proof
of any “Pietà”! And where
were my brothers and sisters all
when my clothes were torn and the air
rang out with lashes? I hate to think
they were down there urging Pilate on
but in the bitterest moments
such is believable. Upon
this sea of gall much good did flow,
I suppose, and without it
who can say I’d have been so driven?
Thus you can see how it might fit
God’s holy plan, which demanded
a leader with something to prove
in the eyes not just of his flock.
But this hasn’t sufficed to remove
all doubts; and though God knows His motions
must be slavishly respected,
in truth I don’t see Mary much
up here – formal events excepted.