By Cordelia Fitzgerald … our good Lord understands of this need of ours for that commiseration, in a way, perhaps, that our fellow men fail to. This God that made us and understands us both from a mechanic or inventor’s point of view and from our very experience, since He too was one of us.
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Palm Sunday is easy for the rest of us
A procession with palms from the parking lot
Praising God through an asphalt Jerusalem
A Subaru on His right hand, a Dodge on His left
Last year the Holy Mass was forbidden by law
An eleventh plague blighted land and air
And so for us there was no exodus
From the brick pits in which we found ourselves
The air is thurified – the incense given
Our Lord upon His birth is fumed at last;
The censer’s chains, clanking like manacles
Offend against the silence at the end of Mass
Holy Saturday in the Virus-Time
Sure, there are empty churches, but…
The waxing moon knows nothing of Holy Week
And stars care nothing for sacred liturgies
Nor do the fireflies flitting among the trees
And ‘round the darkening lawn as evening falls…
LogoSophia Magazine 