Jesus answered them, “The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified. Amen, amen, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains just a grain of wheat; but if it dies, it produces much fruit. Whoever loves his life loses it, and whoever hates his life in this world will preserve it for eternal life.”
The grains of wheat the sower long has carried, the harvest of the seeds that came before, you go into the darkness and are buried, and everything you’ve been will be no more.
The road you take, your savior took before you, who followed Adam to the roots of death. And, ground between the stones of pain and sorrow, in dying he becomes the living bread.
The shell that has surrounded you with safety will not withstand the coming flood of tears, then, naked in the silence, weak and shameless, your patience waits the turning of the year.
For as you sit in darkness, spring is coming: The light you long to see will break on high, the prison doors swing open at its dawning, and morning will release those doomed to die.
So go into your furrow and be planted; crack open in the stillness underground, For Jesus, by his death, all death has trampled, and in his rising your new life is found.
Have mercy on me, God, as you are holy. Have mercy, Lord, for you are merciful. Though I have wandered far from my own soul now, you are yourself, a well forever full.
Have mercy, though I walk in my transgressions and, feasting, fill my mouth with sand and dust. I dream of rain and wake to find a desert: If this is water, why do I still thirst?
A heart of stone can live on dust and ashes; create a heart for me of flesh and blood that feels the fear of loss and sting of gladness. Renew me, and my barren shoots will bud.
You are the only sea: Fill this dry streambed. You are the rain: Then quench these thirsting bones. Let floods destroy my shame and self-deceiving. The record of my sin make blank as snow.
Lord, open up my lips to taste your waters, and in between the sips I'll sing your praise. This desert that I built I will not offer, but let this beating heart be yours always.
We adore you, O Christ, and we bless you, because by your holy cross, you have redeemed the world.
Get up. This isn't over. Get up. You can't stay here. Your way goes even lower, down underneath all fear.
Not just to pain, but suff'ring. Not just to death, but hell. You are the perfect off'ring— You can't stop where you fell.
Get up, O son of heaven. Get up, O prince of peace. The sentence has been given: You have not been released.
For what did you begin this, why drown here in the mud? Not payment, but forgiveness, all debts washed out in blood.
Get up: The end's before you. Get up; You can't stay down. The jaws of death wait for you, the lost souls crying out.
Not darkness, but for mercy. Not silence, but for peace. Death's hungry, and death's thirsty, and you are all the feast.
Holy God, Holy Mighty One, Holy Immortal One, have mercy on us.
Calvary of Karl I of Austria and Station 9. Jesus falls the third time, Stations of the Cross. Made by Lőrinc Siklódy, Zsolt Hernádi (bronze casting), Zoltán Varga (conservator) in 2013 (originally 1927). Listed ID 16465. – Visszhang street, Tihany, Veszprém County, Hungary}}{{hu|1=Jézus harmadszor esik el a kereszttel . IV. Károly kálvária. Siklódy Lőrinc, Hernádi Zsolt (bronzöntő), Varga Zoltán (restaurátor) késztették 2013. (eredetileg: 1927). Műemlék azonosító [http://muemlekem.hu/muemlek?id=16465 16465]. – Magyarország, Veszprém megye, Tihany, Visszhang utca( az Óhegy déli lejtőjén){{Monument Hungary|16465}}
We adore you, O Christ, and we bless you, because by your holy cross, you have redeemed the world.
The day will come, you say to us, when we will bless the barren wombs, command the mountains, “Cover us!” and beg the hills to be our tombs.
The wood is green, but still it burns— a stinging smoke that fills the sky— two thousand years since then have turned. The seasoned wood has gone bone dry.
Oh yes, we weep now for ourselves and for our children yet to come. We beg you to make all things well— how can you heal what's long since done?
Reach out, O God in mortal flesh, across millenia's abyss to touch the passing of each breath. My Christ, do not abandon us!
You go to break the chains of hell, to conquer death on Calvary. You go, and we will follow still: Come with us into what shall be.
And when this dry wood meets the spark, pour down the ancient flood once more— not wrath, but mercy. Drain your heart, and rain on us forever, Lord.
Holy God, Holy Mighty One, Holy Immortal One, have mercy on us.
Jesus said to Nicodemus: “Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the desert, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, so that everyone who believes in him may have eternal life. For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him might not perish but might have eternal life.”
Late and early came the prophets, calling us throughout the years. Loudly came your word and often; sullenly we stopped our ears. Now your anger falls upon us; now we taste the salt of tears.
Yet we know the night is passing: Darkness falls before the dawn. Sorrow is not everlasting, though its years go on and on. When the land has had its sabbaths, then will all our tears be gone.
Anger will not last forever: God will turn to us again. Mercy will drop down from heaven, fill our desert with its rain, pardon seven times and seven, joy for all our years of pain.
When will we behold that mercy? When will you forgive us, Lord? When the king becomes a servant, robed in sorrow, crowned with thorn, lifted up like Moses' serpent: This is how you love the world.
We adore you, O Christ, and we bless you, because by your holy cross, you have redeemed the world.
You saw Satan fall like lightning. Was it like this when he fell, hecklers jeering, crowds despising, voices mocking him to hell?
Or did angels weep to see it from the heavens that he'd left? Were you, even then, in pity plotting out your road to death?
Did you know that we would follow, moths who die by candlelight? You, the morning of tomorrow, followed us into the night.
Now you lie in dust and ashes with a cross upon your back. Weakened by the thorns and lashes, you collapse on Satan's track.
Yet the road is long before you— though as brief as one man's life— ere the hellgate opens for you, swallowing you up in night.
Rise, O sun, for those in darkness. Rise, for you are not done yet. Rise for all the brokenhearted. Rise and turn the day bloodred.
Holy God, Holy Mighty One, Holy Immortal One, have mercy on us.
Droga Krzyżowa – III STACJA Pan Jezus upada pod krzyżem. Najmniejszy rysunek świata. Autor Wojtek Łuka 2021. Eksponat Muzeum Miniaturowej Sztuki Profesjonalnej Henryk Jan Dominiak w Tychach. By Muzeum Miniaturowej Sztuki Profesjonalnej Henryk Jan Dominiak w Tychach – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=110042338
Jesus went up to Jerusalem. He found in the temple area those who sold oxen, sheep, and doves, as well as the money changers seated there. He made a whip out of cords and drove them all out of the temple area, with the sheep and oxen, and spilled the coins of the money changers and overturned their tables, and to those who sold doves he said, “Take these out of here, and stop making my Father’s house a marketplace.”
“Come,” you say; “remove your sandals: Here you stand on holy ground.” Here, where every flock has trampled? Here, where all my deals go down?
Here within your tabernacle I have built my marketplace, paved it o'er with dimes and nickels, veiled the image of your face.
I have feasted in your temple— your own dwelling, set apart— gorged myself before my idols. Purge the altar in my heart.
Turn away the grinning merchants; claim the dreams they count in coins. Then forgive how I have worshipped at the table of their joys.
Drive away the sheep and cattle shod in silver, hormed in gold, easy off'rings, prayers I prattle, grace and blessing bought and sold.
Cleanse my heart to be your dwelling where you only are adored. Then, when time destroys this temple, raise it up again, O Lord.
11th century unknown painters – Gospelbook of Matilda – The Cleansing of the Temple – WGA15960 By Unknown Miniaturist, Italian (active late 11th century) – Web Gallery of Art: Image Info about artwork, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15884839
Kate Bluett 
