She knelt at Mass that day, in her wedding gown.
She was to be a bride that day, of Him whom she loved.
The Crucifix hung still, and the consecration Host rose,
while she knelt in tearful silence.
Lo, a strong wind came, and all that was there was gone.
Standing in a pressing crowd, she heard a great voice speak.
“Come, let us go to Jerusalem,
Where the Son of Man will be put to death.”
The voice was calm and loving,
But she could feel the tremble in its breath.
Her gown hung long and beautiful,
White and pure and clean,
She made her way to Him.
But through the crowds, she could not see;
Nor could she reach His feet.
Her feet were bare, she walked to the garden of Olives.
One day came and went, and then another,
As she knelt in prayer.
Never growing hungry, and not lacking in sleep.
Finally, this night she knew, she would feel Him near.
The garden was dark and warm and dry…
And the hour had grown late…
But she could feel Him when He entered,
And fell down prostrate.
In tearful prayer, she stayed that way,
While blood fell from His brow.
Her face was white, her love was pure,
As she heard them take Him away.
She followed then, her feet tread soft,
And Christ could feel His Bride.
She stood there while the trial was held,
And begged a soldier to help.
He hit her in her face and said:
“Girl, you are mad.”
Sneaking in to the place He was,
She saw His face them strike.
Her voice unheard, her efforts ignored,
He saw the dress that night.
Before the seat of Pilate,
She was first to stand.
When He was taken up,
And sentenced to be scourged.
Her dress was white, her voice was sweet,
As she cried out in pain.
Before the soldiers entered with Him,
She was at the pillar.
And when they entered, only He saw,
The face of His young daughter.
With one hand, He closed her eyes,
As she knelt down near Him.
His groans she heard,
His blood she felt,
But the whip she could not see.
A moment, an hour, a day and it was over,
Her white dress was dyed red.
She opened her eyes, just in time to see,
Him taken to be crowned.
Rising up, holding her skirt,
She knew just what to do.
A flower patch, planted just for this,
She sought with a strong heart.
Many she picked, all white and red,
Purple, yellow, and blue.
Her dress she filled, her arms were full,
As she dropped them on His Way.
When she was done, and it was day,
She waited for Him to come.
Bleeding and weak, a cross He held,
And tears sprung to her eyes.
She walked with Him, on flowery path,
And no one but He saw.
He saw her hand, and gentle fingers,
White as her wedding dress,
As His Face they gently caressed.
The cross they reached, the walk was done,
And by Him she stood.
Her dress stained red, her face all moist,
She held out her hand.
He looked at her, His red eyes tearing,
And on her finger,
He placed a golden ring.
Her heart was broken, her eyes were blinded,
As His Crucifixion she watched.
He hung there now, His breath was weak;
She longed to moisten His lips.
He breathed His last, but she saw a smile,
In the last glint of His eyes.
And she died too that day.
Three days passed, the third sun rose,
And He stood with His Bride.
Her dress was white, her face was pure,
She wore a golden ring.
In His embrace, she would remain,
For all eternity.
The Host was lowered, she was at peace,
As she looked at her wedding ring.
Christ, the perfect Bridegroom, suffered great pain and desolation. His sacrifice and the burden He took on His own shoulders for our sin was a burden only God could hold. It is, perhaps, His every bride's greatest wish to console Him in His suffering. The vocation of a religious is to share Christ's sacrifice, just in the way that this bride did, and thus ease His Agony. Could there be any greater joy than that which His Bride is given? To share with Him the greatest suffering, and die with Him for the world?