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    Tears at The Foot of The Cross

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    Rishel Alama
    1) A mother mourns the death of her son who was crucified thirty years ago at the foot of the cross. 2) She recalls nursing and caring for him as a baby, but can now only reach his broken feet as he hangs dead on the cross. 3) Through her son's death, she envisions an end to war, hatred, and pain in the world, to be replaced with love, joy, and his kingdom.

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    Tears at The Foot of The Cross

    Uploaded by

    Rishel Alama
    365 views1 page
    1) A mother mourns the death of her son who was crucified thirty years ago at the foot of the cross. 2) She recalls nursing and caring for him as a baby, but can now only reach his broken feet as he hangs dead on the cross. 3) Through her son's death, she envisions an end to war, hatred, and pain in the world, to be replaced with love, joy, and his kingdom.

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    1) A mother mourns the death of her son who was crucified thirty years ago at the foot of the cross. 2) She recalls nursing and caring for him as a baby, but can now only reach his broken feet as he hangs dead on the cross. 3) Through her son's death, she envisions an end to war, hatred, and pain in the world, to be replaced with love, joy, and his kingdom.

    Copyright:

    © All Rights Reserved
    Download as DOCX, PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd
    Download as docx, pdf, or txt
    365 views1 page

    Tears at The Foot of The Cross

    Uploaded by

    Rishel Alama
    1) A mother mourns the death of her son who was crucified thirty years ago at the foot of the cross. 2) She recalls nursing and caring for him as a baby, but can now only reach his broken feet as he hangs dead on the cross. 3) Through her son's death, she envisions an end to war, hatred, and pain in the world, to be replaced with love, joy, and his kingdom.

    Copyright:

    © All Rights Reserved
    Download as DOCX, PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd
    Download as docx, pdf, or txt
    of 1

    TEARS AT THE FOOT OF THE CROSS

    Thirty-years ago He was my baby. I bore him, I warmed him, watched over
    and dressed him…nursed him, cradled him in my arms – thirty-years ago. And
    now… He is dead! Dead! Nail to the cross like a thief … broken and bleeding like a
    slaughtered beast … ! What has He done to them? To the priests, to the governor
    and the people who shouted and screamed? What has he done to them, when all
    the words that came out of his mouth were words of kindness and love even for
    his enemies? Yet, now he is gone. And I shall never know the touch and the
    healing gladness of him again ... My Son . . . my little lad. Is it cold u there my son?
    I cannot reach you to where you are nailed. Only your feet . . . your broken
    feet . . . can my hands reach. My bossom warms and waits for you, bungering
    yearning . . . like the night I bore you and pressed you close to me to protect you
    from the chilly night wind inside the stable; Now my hands can only stretch but
    cannot hold you . . my arms cannot enfold you . . . I cannot get up to you. I am
    tramped and cold and beaten; I cannot reach you up in your cross – where you
    are hanging – dead!

    They shouted for your blood – they screamed for your life – they cried out
    for your death! Now, you are dead, but your death shall change everything. I can
    see the end of war in your day – some day. I can see the end of hatred and the
    coming of the love; I can see a newer courage and a new kind of duty, I can see
    the joy of women and little children . . . some day; I can see cities and great
    spaces of land full of happiness; I can see love shining in every face. In your death
    there shall be no more hatred; no more killing . . . no more pain . . . no more loss,
    no death. Only life, only love, only you, and your kingdom, my Son.

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