Thirty-three years ago he was my baby. I bore him. I warmed him: washed, dressed him: fended for him. I fed his little mouth with milk.  Thirty-three years ago.  And now he's dead.

Dead, that's what he is. Dead! Hung up in the air like a thief: broken and bleeding like a slaughtered beast. All the life gone out of him.  I'm His mother.

That's what they did to my son. Killed him like a beast. Respectable people they were. Priests, judges, soldiers, gentlemen: even common folk like me. They did it and now he's dead.

Ohhhh, my son. How can this be?

He didn't hold with their kind, my son. He was always telling them about it. He would stand up in the market-place, at the street corners, even in the House of God itself, and tell them about it. That's why they killed him.

He had a strange way about him, my son: always had, from the very first day. His eyes...they were wonderful. They held folk.  That and his tongue and his tender, pitiful heart.

They didn't understand it down here. None of us understood it. We were blind...even me. Many a time I got in his way and tried to hinder him: I was afraid for him, ashamed. And then he'd look at me...they were always wonderful, his eyes.

He wasn't particular, my son. He would go with anybody. He loved them so. There wasn't a drunk in the place, nor a thief, nor a loose woman on the streets, but called him brother. He would eat with them, drink with them, go to their parties. He would go with the grand folk, too...gentlemen. He wasn't particular, he would go with anyone. And I tried to hinder him. I got in his way, because I was ashamed. Kept pushing in, I was afraid of what the people might think.  I was blind. I didn't understand.

Oh, my son, my own son. Child of my sorrow, my lad, come back to me! It's me, it's your mother, calling to you. Can't you hear me out of the lone waste and the darkness yonder? My lad, come back, come back to me!

Only the wind blowing up over the moors. God's breath, men call it. Oh, it strikes a chill to the bones...

Are you cold, my lad? I cannot reach you up there...only your feet, your poor bloody feet and the ankles hanging limp toward me. My heart warms and waits for you, hungering, yearning like the day I bore you...but I cannot get up to you...I am cramped and cold and beaten. I cannot reach you....

Oh, that was a cold night, too...the night you were born, way out in the country, in the cave with those beasts. Joseph, he was mad about it. But he covered us with his great wool coat, and went and sat out in the yard, under the stars, til' those three gentlemen came. Those three gentlemen. They talked wonderful. I have it all here in my heart.

Wonderful. They were not common folk. They were like lords, they spoke so fine. About my little lad. About you.

And then, that other night, before you came. It was a kind of light. It was a kind of glory. Like sunshine. I remember every word he said. About you. About my little lad.

Oh, it was promise in those days, all promise and hope. Like you were to be somebody. Like you were to be a great man! I kept it inside of me. I fed on it. Day by day as you grew I told you about it. You were to be no common man. You were to be the Master of men. And now you're dead.

Ohhhh.....ohhhh  (sobs)

That day of the fairing, when we went up to the big city, your father and me and you. The wide asking eyes of you. Your little hand, how it would go out so and so. Your little tongue all a-clatter. The ways, the wonderings of you...and the heartbreak, the heartbreak when we had lost you. Talking to the good priests, you said. Good priests! Dear God.....

Oh, the big city...the cruel city...they city of men's sin! Calling the sweet life of a man and swallowing him up in death. No home for you in the little village from that day. Your father's trade, your tasks, your companions, all fell off from you that day. The city. The big city called you, and the country thereabouts. It was your kingdom, you said. You must seek out and build your kingdom. And the people thronged about you and followed you wherever you went in those days. They hung upon your words. They worshipped you...in those days. It was the way you had...your special way. A power went out from you. You weren't like anyone else. A king! A king!! You looked like a king. You spoke like a king. You ruled like a king. You, the little peasant lad I bore. I never advised you. I never lifted up my hand to help you. I hindered you...but I was proud of you, my lad. Proud, ashamed and afraid too! And not it's too late. You're dead. All of it come to nothing. You're dead.

Dead! Killed by the soldiers and the judges of the great city. I'll tell them about it. I'll go through all the earth telling about it. Killed by the men you called your brothers! Killed by the children of your kingdom! Killed...and the golden crown of your glory torn off, battered...and cast to the ground. Beaten, mocked, murdered by the mighty masters of the world. Hung up, high up in the air like a thief. Broken and bleeding like a slaughtered beast!  Your blood dripping down here in the darkness and the stones are wet with it.

Ohhhh.....ohhhh  (wailing...decreases to soft crying) 

*****

Note from Adelle:  This is an adaptation of a portion of a drama written by Charles Rann Kennedy in 1911-1912 and is now in the public domain. Originally written in cockney, it was intended as a Good Friday drama. I had the honor of playing the role of Mary at the foot of the cross on three separate occasions. I was 33 years old one of the times (the same age as Jesus at His crucifixion) and this part...this role of Mary, expressing her current feelings of overwhelming grief with flashbacks of earlier times and promises, changed my life forever. 

Has His death changed your life?  Was His life all for naught? 

How much does Jesus love you?

Jesus stretched out his arms upon the cross and said I love you this much!

Accept His love.

Adelle

Midi playing ~ "Were You There?"
Moore's Chapel UMC Christian Midis

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