3 stycznia 2012
THE PIETA
Who weeps for Jesus at the clutch of doom?
His mother, whose face most mirrors his face.
A sword has pierced her soul, so full of grace.
The wondrous youth who ambled in the coomb
She renders to the wolvish-throated tomb.
What grief-staind mercy for our wayward race.
In her lineaments all mothers trace
The nameless shapes of loss such hurts assume.
She clasps his head to her breast, shouldering
The lifeless trunk, but the spirit is fled.
She studies Golgotha, bewildering
And otherworldly, now that Christ is dead -
Ever the crown of her long-suffering,
Ever the flag of mothers sorrow-ed.
28 czerwca 2025
wiesiek
28 czerwca 2025
sam53
28 czerwca 2025
Arsis
28 czerwca 2025
violetta
28 czerwca 2025
dobrosław77
28 czerwca 2025
Istar
27 czerwca 2025
Yaro
27 czerwca 2025
wiesiek
27 czerwca 2025
Jaga
26 czerwca 2025
Yaro