A Sword-Pierced Heart
My sweet boy, the fruit of my vine,how could I have knownwhen I was told a sword would pierce this heart of mine?In your moments of woe and despair,I was there.Your blood, sweat, and tears in a garden on that dark nightreminded me of a timewhen I bled and sweat for you beneath the starlight.It's a sorrowful mysteryhow this became our history.Your wails at the scourgeechoed a young mother's wailswhen you were yet to emerge.For love I would willingly suffer,But to watch you, that's far tougher.The King of the Jews, they said,and they placed a crownof thorns upon your head.The first crown you wore was the flesh of my womb,a baby arriving at an inn with no room.I remember when I first carried you,you wrapped your hand around my finger,my greatest joy and my greatest sorrow too.As you carry the cross up to a hilly plain,I long to hold you in my arms again.You lay naked, except for a piece of cloth,On a piece of woodThat served as an animal feeding trough.At Golgotha, you lay naked on a piece of woodon a Friday they later called Good.My sweet boy, your blood turned to wine,how could I have knownwhen I was told a sword would pierce this heart of mine?How could I have known as you learned to crawlthat you would be the salvation of us all?
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