Holy Sat to Easter Morn
Mary's Lament, Jesus' first apparition to her
from the Poem of the Man-God Vol V
4th October 1944.
The terrible spiritual distress of Mary.
The Mother is standing near the anointing stone caressing, contemplating, moaning, weeping. The flickering light of the torches illuminates Her face now and again, and I see large tear drops stream down the cheeks of Her ravaged face. And I can hear Her words. Every one of them. All of them, very clearly, although whispered between Her lips, a real conversation of a mother's soul with the soul of Her Son. I am told to write them.
« Poor Son! How many wounds!… How much You have suffered! Look what they have done to You!… How cold You are, Son! Your fingers are ice-cold. And how motionless they are! They seem to be broken. Never, not even in the sound sleep of a child, or in the heavy sleep after working as an artisan, were they so inert… And how cold they are! Poor hands! My darling, My love, My holy love, give them to Your Mother! Look how lacerated they are! John, look what a gash! Oh! cruel men! Here, give Me this wounded hand of Yours. That I may dress it. Oh! I will not hurt You… I will use kisses and tears, and I will warm it with My breath and My love.
Caress Me, Son! You are ice-cold, I am burning with fever. My fever will be relieved by Your ice, and Your ice will be mitigated by My fever. A caress, Son! Only a few hours have gone by since You last caressed Me, and they seem ages to Me. For months I was without Your caresses, and they seemed hours to Me, because I was always waiting for You to come back, and I considered each day an hour, and each hour a minute, to say to Myself that You had not been away for one or more months, but only for a few days, for a few hours. Why is time so long now? Ah! inhuman torture! Because you are dead.
They have killed You! You are no longer on the Earth! No longer! Wherever I send My soul to look for Yours and embrace it, because finding You, having You, feeling You was the life of My body and of My spirit, wherever I look for You with the wave of My love, I no longer find you, I do not find You any more. Nothing of You is left to Me but these cold soulless remains!
O soul of My Jesus, o soul of My Christ, o soul of My Lord, where are You? O cruel hyenas joined to Satan, why have you taken away the soul of My Son? And why have you not crucified Me with Him? Were you afraid of committing a second crime? (Her voice is becoming stronger and stronger and more and more heart-rending). And what was it for you killing a poor woman, since you did not hesitate to kill God Incarnate? Have you not committed a second crime? And is letting a mother outlive her murdered son not the most nefarious crime? »
The Mother, Who with Her voice had raised also Her head, now bends again over the lifeless face and speaks in a low voice, to Him alone: « At least we would have been together in here, in the tomb, as we would have been together in the agony on the cross, and together in the journey beyond life and towards the Life. But if I cannot follow You in the journey beyond life, I can remain here waiting for You. »
She straightens Herself up again and says to those present in a loud voice: « Go away, all of you. I will stay. Close Me in here with Him. I will wait for Him. What are you saying? That it is not possible? Why is it not possible'? If I had died, would I not be here, lying beside Him, waiting to be put in order? I will be beside Him, but on My knees. I was there when He, a delicate rosy baby, cried on a December night. I will be here now, on this night of the world, that no longer has the Christ. Oh! true night' The Light is no longer!… O ice-cold night! The Love is dead' What are you saying, Nicodemus? Shall I be contaminated? His Blood is not contamination. I was not contaminated even when I gave birth to Him. Ah! How you came out, You, Flower of My womb, without tearing any fibre, just like a flower of scented narcissus, that blooms from the soul of the matrix bulb and yields a flower even if the embrace of the earth has not been on the matrix. A virginal blooming that can be compared with You Son, Who came through a heavenly embrace and were born in the Diffusion of heavenly splendour. »
Now the heart-broken Mother bends once again over Her Son, estranged to everything that is not He, and She whispers slowly: « But do You remember, Son, that sublime show of brightness that filled everything when Your smile was born in the world? Do You remember that beatific light that the Father sent from Heaven to envelop the mystery of Your flowering and to make You find this dark world less repellent, since You were the Light and You were corning from the Light of the Father and of the Paraclete Spirit? And now?… Now darkness and cold… How cold! I am shivering all over. More than that December night. Then there was the joy of having You to warm My heart. And You had two people loving You… Now… Now I am alone and I am dying, too. But I will love You for two: for those who have loved You so little that they abandoned You at the moment of sorrow; I will love You for those who have hated You, I will love You for the whole world, Son. You will not feel the chill of the world. No, You will not feel it. You did not tear My viscera to be born, but I am ready to tear them and enclose You in the embrace of My womb in order not to make You feel cold. Do you remember how My womb loved You, little throbbing embryo?… It is still the same womb. Oh! it is My right and My duty as a Mother. It is My wish. There is no one but the Mother Who can have it, Who can have a love as big as the universe for Her Son. »
Her voice has been rising, and now, with all its strength She says: « Go. I will stay. You will come back in three days' time and we will go out together. Oh! to see the world again leaning on Your arm, Son! How beautiful the world will be in the light of Your risen smile! The world thrilling in its Lord's steps! The Earth trembled when death extirpated Your soul and Your spirit departed from Your heart. But now it will tremble… oh! no longer with horror and spasm, but with a gentle throb, unknown to Me, but apprehended by My feminine insight that thrills a virgin when, after an absence, she hears the step of her bridegroom coming for the wedding. Even more: the Earth will tremble with a holy throb, as I was shaken in the deepest depth when I had the Lord One and Triune in Me, and the will of the Father with the fire of the Love created the seed from which You came, of holy Baby, My Son, all Mine! All of Your Mother! of Your Mother!… »
Every child has a father and mother. Also an illegitimate boy has a father and a mother. But You had only Your Mother to make Your flesh of rose and lily, to make these embroidered veins, as blue as our streams in Galilee, and these lips of pomegranate, and this hair more graceful than the blond fleece of the goats of our hills, and these eyes: two little lakes of Paradise. No, more than that, they are of the water that comes from the Unique and Quadruple River of the Place of Delight, and carries with it, in its four branches, gold, onyx, beryl and ivory, and diamonds, and palms, and honey, and roses, and infinite riches, o Pishon, Gihon, Tigris, Euphrates: way for the angels exulting in God, way for the kings adoring You known or unknown Essence, but Living and Present even in the most obscure heart! Only Your Mother did that for You, by means of Her "yes"… I formed You with music and love, I made You with purity and obedience, My Joy!
What is Your Heart? The flame of Mine, that split to condense in a crown around the kiss given by God to His Virgin. That is what your Heart is. Ah! (The shout is so heart-rending that the Magdalene hastens to succour Her with John. The other women dare not Move and weeping and veiled, look stealthily from the opening). Ah! they have broken it! That is why You are so cold, and I am so cold! There is no longer inside You the flame of My heart, and I can no longer continue to live through the reflection of that flame, which was Mine and which I gave You to make Your heart. Here, here, here, on My breast! Before death kills Me, I want to warm You up, I want to lull You. I used to sing to You: "There is no home, there is no food, there is nothing but sorrow". O prophetic words! Sorrow, sorrow, sorrow for You, for Me! I used to sing to You: "Sleep, sleep on My heart". Also now: here, here, here… , And sitting on the edge of the stone, She takes Him in Her lap, passing one arm of Her Son round Her shoulders, resting His head on Her shoulder, and bending Her head on His, holding Him close to Her breast, lulling and kissing Him, heart-broken and heart-rending.
Nicodemus and Joseph approach Her, laying vases and bandages, and the clean Shroud, and a basin of water, I think, and what seem lint wads, on a kind of seat, which is on the other side of the stone.
Mary notices it and asks in a loud voice: « What are you doing? What do you want? To prepare Him? For what? Leave Him in the lap of His Mother. If I succeed in warming Him up, He will rise sooner. If I succeed in consoling the Father and in comforting Him for the deicide hatred, the Father will forgive sooner, and He will come back sooner. » The Sorrowful Mother is almost raving.
« I will not give Him to you! I gave Him once, I gave Him once to the world, and the world did not want Him. It killed Him, because it did not want Him. Now I am not giving Him any more! What are you saying? That you love Him? Of course! Then, why did you not defend Him? You have waited, to say that you loved Him, until He could no longer hear you. What a poor love yours is! But if you were so afraid of the world that you did not dare to defend an innocent, you should at least have handed Him back to Me, to His Mother, so that She might defend Her Son. She knew who He was and what He deserved. You!… You have had Him as your Master, but you have learned nothing. Is that not true? Am I perhaps telling lies? But do you not see that you do not believe in His Resurrection? You believe in it? No. Why are you standing there, preparing bandages and spices? Because you consider Him a poor dead man, cold today, putrified tomorrow, and that is why you want to embalm Him.
'Leave your pomades. Come and worship the Saviour with the pure hearts of the shepherds of Bethlehem. Look: in His sleep He is only one who is tired and is resting. How much He worked in His lifetime! He has worked more and more, not to mention these last hours!… Now He is resting. As far as I, His Mother, am concerned, He is nothing but a big Boy who is tired and is sleeping. His bed and room are really miserable! But neither was His first pallet more beautiful, nor was His first dwelling place more cheerful. The shepherds worshipped the Saviour in His sleep as an Infant. Worship the Saviour in His sleep as Triumpher of Satan. Then, like the shepherds, go and say to the world: "Glory to God! Sin is dead! Satan is defeated! Peace be on the Earth and in Heaven between God and man!" Prepare the ways for His return. I am sending you. I, Whom Maternity makes the Priestess of the rite. Go. I said that I do not want it. I have washed Him with My tears. And it is enough. The rest is not necessary. And do not think that you will put it on Him. It will be easier for Him to rise if He is free from those funereal useless bandages.
Why are you looking at Me so, Joseph? And you, Nicodemus? Has the horror of this day made you dull-witted or absent-minded? Do you not remember? "This evil and adulterous generation, which asks for a sign, will be given no other sign but that of Jonah… So the Son of man will be for three days and three nights in the heart of the Earth". Do you not remember? "The Son of man is going to be handed over to the power of men, who will kill Him, but on the third day He will be raised again". Do you not remember? "Destroy this Temple of the true God and in three days I will rebuild it". O men, the Temple was His Body. Are you shaking your heads? Are you pitying Me? Do you think that I am insane? What? He raised the dead and will He not be able to raise Himself? John? »
« Mother! »
« Yes, call Me "mother". I cannot live thinking that I shall not be called so! John, you were present when He raised the young daughter of Jairus and the young man of Nain from the dead. They were really dead, were they not? It was not just a heavy sleep? Tell Me. »
« They were dead. The girl had been dead two hours, the young man a day and a half. »
« And did they rise at His order? »
« The rose at His order. »
« Have you heard that? You two, have you heard? But why are you shaking your heads? Ah! perhaps you mean that life comes back quicker in those who are innocent and young. But My Child is the Innocent! And He is the Always Young One. He is God, My Son!… » With tormented feverish eyes Mary looks at the two preparers, who, depressed but inflexible, are laying the rolls of bandages already soaked in the spices.
Mary takes two steps. She has laid Her Son down again on the stone with the delicacy of one who lays a new-born baby in a cradle. She takes two steps, She bends at the foot of the funereal bed, where the Magdalene is weeping on her knees, She gets hold of her shoulder, shakes her and calls her: « Mary. Tell Me. These people think that Jesus cannot rise from the dead, because He is a man and He died of wounds. But is you brother not older than He is? »
« Yes, he is. »
« Was he not one big sore? »
« Yes, he was. »
« Was he not already putrid before descending into his sepulchre? »
« Yes, he was. »
« And did he not rise from the dead after four days of asphyxia and putrefaction? »
« Yes, he did. »
« So? »
There is a long grave silence. Then an inhuman howl. Mary staggers, pressing a hand against Her breast. They support Her. She repels them. She seems to repel the compassionate people. In actual fact She repels what She alone can see. And She shouts: « Back! Back, you cruel one! Not this revenge! Be silent! I do not want to hear you! Be silent! Ah! he is biting at My heart! »
« Who, Mother? »
« O John! It is Satan! Satan who is saying: "He will not rise. No prophet said that". O Most High God! Help Me all of you, good spirits, and you compassionate men! My reason is wavering! I do not remember anything any more. What do the prophets say? What does the Psalm say? Oh! who will repeat to Me the passages that speak of My Jesus? »
It is the Magdalene who in her melodious voice recites David's psalm on the Passion of the Messiah.
Mary weeps more bitterly, supported by John, and Her tears fall on Her dead Son, wetting Him completely. Mary notices that and wipes Him saying in a low voice: « So many tears. And when You were so thirsty I could not give You even one drop. And now… I am wetting You completely! You look like a shrub under heavy dew. Here, Your Mother will dry You now, Son! You have tasted so much bitterness! Do not let also the bitterness and the salt of Your Mother's tears fall on Your wounded lips!… »
Then in a loud voice She calls: « Mary. David does not say… Do You know Isaiah? Repeat his words… »
The Magdalene repeats the passage on the Passion and she ends saying with a sob: « … He surrendered His life to death and was taken for a sinner, He Who took away the sins of the world and prayed for sinners. »
« Oh! Be silent! Death no! Not delivered to death! No! No! Oh! Your lack of faith, forming an alliance with Satan's temptation, maker, My heart doubt! And should I not believe You, Son? Should I not believe Your holy Word?! Oh! tell My soul! Speak. From the far away shores, where You have gone to free those awaiting Your coming, cast the voice of Your soul to My anxious soul, to Mine which is here, all open to receive Your voice. Tell Your Mother that You are coming back! Say: "On the third day I will rise from the dead". I implore You, Son and God! Help Me to protect My Faith. Satan is crushing it in his coils to strangle it. Satan has removed his mouth of a snake from the flesh of man, because You have torn that prey away from him, and now with his hooked poisonous teeth he is piercing the flesh of My heart paralysing its throbs, its strength and warmth. God! God! God! Do not allow Me to be distrustful! Do not allow doubt to freeze Me! Do not let Satan be free to lead Me to despair! Son! Son! Put Your hand on My heart. It will drive Satan away. Lay it on My head. It will bring the Light back to it. Sanctify My lips with a caress, so that they may be fortified to say: "I believe" even against a whole world that does not believe. Oh! how grievous it is not to believe! Father! Those who do not believe are to be forgiven much. Because, when one no longer believes… when one no longer believes… all horror becomes easy. I tell You… I, Who am experiencing this torture. Father, have mercy on the faithless! Holy Father, for the sake of this Victim Which has been consumed, and of Me, a victim which is still consuming, give them, give the faithless Your faith! »
A long silence.
Nicodemus and Joseph beckon to John and the Magdalene. « Come, Mother. » It is the Magdalene who says so, trying to take Mary away from Her Son and to separate Jesus' fingers which are interlaced with Mary's, Who is kissing them weeping.
The Mother straightens Herself up. She is impressive. For the last time She stretches out the poor bloodless fingers and lays the inert hand along the side of the body. Then She lowers Her arms towards the ground, and standing upright, Her head bent lightly back, She prays and offers. Not a word is heard. But from Her whole appearance it is clear that She is praying. She is really the Priestess at the altar, the Priestess at the moment of the offertory. « Offerimus praeclarae majestati tuae de tuis donis, ac datis, hostiam puram, hostiam sanctam, hostiam immaculatam… »
Then She turns round and says: « You may continue. But He will rise from the dead. In vain you mistrust My reason and are blind to the truth He spoke to you. In vain Satan tries to lay snares to My faith. To redeem the world also the torture given to My heart by Satan defeated is required. I suffer it and I offer it for future men. Goodbye, Son! Goodbye, My Child! Goodbye, My little Boy! Goodbye… Goodbye.. Holy… Good… Beloved and lovable… Beauty…Joy Source of health… Goodbye On Your eyes on Your lips on Your golden hair on Your frozen limbs on Your pierced heart oh! on Your pierced heart My kiss My kiss My kiss Goodbye Goodbye Lord! Have mercy on Me! »
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[19th February 1944].
The two preparers have finished preparing the bandages.
They come to the table and they denude Jesus also of His veil. They pass a sponge, I think, or a linen cloth, on the body in a very rapid preparation of the limbs dripping from countless parts. Then they spray ointments on all the Body. In fact they bury it under a layer of pomade. First they lift it up, cleaning also the stone slab, on which they lay the Shroud, more than half of which hangs from the head of the bed. They lay Him down again, on His chest, and spread the ointments on all His back, thighs and legs, on all the posterior part. Then they turn Him round delicately, watching that the pomade of spices is not removed, and they spread also the front, first the trunk, then the limbs. First the feet, then the hands, which they join on the lower belly.
The mixture of spices must be as sticky as gum, because I see that His hands remain in place, whereas before they always slid because of their weight of dead limbs. His feet do not slide. They remain in position: one is more straight, the other more stretched.
His head is the last. After spreading it diligently, so that its features disappear under the layer of ointment, they tie it with a chin-bandage to keep the mouth closed. Mary moans more loudly.
Then they lift the hanging side of the Shroud and fold it on Jesus. He disappears under the thick cloth of the Shroud. It is nothing but a form covered with a cloth.
Joseph ensures that everything is in order and on the Face he lays another linen sudarium and other cloths of the kind, similar to wide rectangular strips, that pass from right to left, above the Body, making the Shroud adhere to the Body. It is not the typical dressing as seen in mummies and also in Lazarus' resurrection. It is a rudimentary dressing.
Jesus is now annulled. Even His shape is confused under the linens. It looks like a long heap of cloths, narrower at the ends and wider at the centre, laid on the grey stone. Mary weeps louder.
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[4th October 1944]
Jesus says:
« And the torture continued with periodic attacks until dawn on Sunday. In My Passion I had only one temptation. But the Mother, the Woman, expiated on behalf of woman, guilty, several times, of every evil. And Satan behaved mercilessly with infinite cruelty towards the conqueress.
Mary had defeated him. The most atrocious temptation for Mary. Temptation against the flesh of the Mother. Temptation against the heart of the Mother. Temptation against the spirit of the Mother. The world thinks that Redemption ended with My last breath. No, it did not. The Mother completed it by adding Her treble torture to redeem the treble concupiscence, struggling for three days against Satan, who wanted to induce Her to deny My word and not to believe in My Resurrection. Mary was the only one who continued to believe. She is great and blessed also because of that faith.
You have become acquainted also with that. A torture corresponding to My torture at Gethsemane. The world will not understand this page. But "those who are in the world without being of the world" will understand it and they will have an increased love for the Sorrowful Mother. That is why I gave it. Go in peace with our blessing. »
607. The Return to the Supper Room.
28th March 1945.
Joseph of Arimathea puts out one of the torches, he has a last look round and goes to the opening of the sepulchre, holding up high the remaining torch still lit.
Mary bends once again to kiss Her Son through His wrappings. And She would like to do so controlling Her grief, to contain it in a form of respect for the Corpse, which, being already embalmed, no longer belongs to Her. But when She is close to the veiled face, She is unable to control Herself and relapses into a new crisis of affliction.
They lift Her with difficulty and with greater difficulty they take Her away from the funereal bed. They rearrange the cloths that had been upset, and carrying Her rather than supporting Her, they take away the poor Mother, Who goes off looking back to see Her Jesus, Who is left alone in the dark sepulchre.
They go into the silent vegetable garden in the evening light. The faint light, that had cleared after the tragedy on Golgotha, is already growing darker, as night is falling. And in there, under the thick branches, although still bare of leaves and just adorned with the white-pink buds of the blossoming apple-trees, strangely late in this orchard of Joseph, whereas elsewhere they are already all covered with open blossoms showing their tiny fruit, it is darker than in any other place.
They roll the heavy sepulchral stone into its lodging. Some long branches of a ruffled rose-bush hanging from the top of the grotto towards the ground seem to be knocking at the stone door saying: « Why are you closing before a weeping mother? » And they also seem to be weeping drops of blood, as they shed their red petals and their corollas lie along the dark stone, and the closed buds knock against the inexorable door.
But soon more blood stains that sepulchral door and more tears wet it. Mary, Who so far has been supported by John and has been sobbing rather quietly, frees Herself from the apostle and with a cry, which I think makes the very fibres of the plants quiver, throws Herself against the entrance, She gets hold of the protruding stone to shift it, She skins Her fingers and breaks Her nails without being successful and prizes the rough stone even with Her head. And Her cry sounds like the roar of a lioness that wounds herself struggling near the trap in which her little ones are closed, being compassionate and wild out of motherly love.
There is nothing left in Her of the meek virgin of Nazareth, of the patient woman, known so far. She is the mother. Only and simply a mother, attached to her child with all the fibres and nerves of her body and of her love. She is the most true « mistress » of that body, to which She has given birth, the only mistress after God, and She does not want to be robbed of Her property. She is the « queen » who is defending Her crown: Her Son.
All the rebellion and rebellious acts that in thirty-three years any other woman would have had against the injustice of the world for her son, all the holy and lawful fierceness that any other mother would have felt during those last hours to wound and kill the murderers of her son with her own hands and teeth, all such feelings, which out of Her love for mankind She has always subdued, now stir in Her heart, they boil in Her blood and, meek as She is even in Her grief that makes Her rave, She does not curse, She does not rebel. She only asks the stone to move aside, to let Her go in, because Her place is in there, where He is. She only asks men, who are pitiless in their pity, to obey Her and to open the sepulchre.
After striking and staining the unrelenting stone with the blood of Her lips and hands, She turns round, She leans against it with Her arms stretched out, gripping the two edges of the stone once again, and solemn in Her majesty of Our Lady of Sorrows, She orders: « Open it! Do you not want to? Well, I am staying here. Not inside? Well, here, outside. Here is My bread and My bed. Here is My abode. I have no other home, no other purpose. You may go. Go back to the world which is disgusting. I am staying where there is no avidity or smell of blood. »
« You cannot, Woman! »
« You cannot, Mother! »
« You cannot, Mary, my dear! »
And they try to detach Her hands from the stone, while they are frightened of those eyes, which they have never seen before flash in such a way that makes them look hard and irresistible, glassy, phosphorescent.
The meek are not overbearing, and the humble do not persist in pride… And Mary's vehement will and imperious command soon vanish. Her eyes become meek again, like those of a tortured dove, Her gestures are no longer imposing and She lowers Her head in a beseeching attitude, and joining Her hands She begs them: « Oh! Do leave Me! For the sake of your dead relatives, for the sake of the living ones whom you love, have mercy on a poor mother!… Feel… Feel My heart. It needs peace to stop throbbing so fiercely. It began throbbing thus up there, on Calvary. The hammer went bang, bang, bang… and each blow wounded My Child… and each blow resounded in My brain and in My heart… and My head is full of those blows, and My heart is beating fast, as those blows did on the hands and feet of My Jesus, of My little Jesus… My Child! My Child!… »
She is overwhelmed again by Her torture, which seemed to have been appeased after Her prayer to the Father near the anointing table. They are all weeping.
« I need not to hear shouts or bangs. And the world is full of voices and noises. Every voice sounds to Me like the "great cry" that curdled the blood in My veins, and every noise sounds like that of the hammer striking the nails. I need not to see men's faces. And the world is full of faces… For almost twelve hours I have been seeing faces of killers… Judas… the executioners… the priests… the Judaeans… They are all killers, all of them!… Go away! Go away… I do not want to see anybody any more… In every man there is a wolf and a snake. Man disgusts and frightens Me… Leave Me here, under these quiet trees, on this flowery grass… Before long the stars will begin to shine… They have always been His friends and Mine… Yesterday evening they kept us company in our lonely agony… They know so many things… They come from God.. - Oh! God! God!… » She weeps and kneels down. « Peace, My God! I am left with nothing but You! »
« Come, my daughter. God will give You peace. But come. Tomorrow is the Passover Sabbath. We shall not be able to come and bring You food… »
« Nothing! Nothing! I do not want any food! I want My Child! I will appease My hunger with My grief, I will quench My thirst with My tears… Here… Can you hear how that horned howl is weeping? It is weeping with Me, and before long nightingales will be weeping. And tomorrow, in the sunshine, wood-larks and blackcaps and all the birds He loved will weep, and doves will come with Me to knock at this stone and say: "Rise, my love, and come! Love, Who are in the large fissure of the rock, in the hiding-place of the ravine, let me see Your face, let me hear Your voice". Ah! What am I saying! They also, the wicked killers, have called Him with the word of the Canticle! Yes, come, daughters of Jerusalem, to see your King with the diadem with which His Fatherland crowned Him on the day of His wedding with Death, on the day of His triumph as Redeemer! »
« Look, Mary! The guards of the Temple are coming. Let us go away, so that they may not scorn You. »
« The guards? Scorn? No. They are cowardly. Yes, cowardly. And if I, dreadful in My grief, should march against them, they would flee like Satan before God. But I remember that I am Mary… and I will not strike as I would be entitled to. I will be good… and they will not even see Me. And if they see Me and ask Me: "What do You want?", I will say to them: "The charity of being allowed to breathe the balmy air coming out from this fissure". I will say: "In the name of your mothers". Everybody has a mother… also the pitiful robber said so… »
« But these men are worse than robbers. They will insult You. »
« Oh!… And is there still an insult of which I am not aware, after today's? »
It is the Magdalene who finds a reason capable of bending the Sorrowful Mother to obedience. « You are good, You are holy, and You believe, and You are strong. But what are we?… You are aware of it! The majority have run away. Those who have remained are trembling. The doubt, which is already in us, would overwhelm us. You are the Mother. You have not only duties and rights on Your Son, but also duties and rights on what belongs to Your Son. You must come back with us, among us, to gather us together, to reassure us, to infuse Your faith into us. You said so, after Your just reproach for our timidity and misbelief: "It will be easier for Him to rise, if He is free from these useless bandages". I say to You: "If we succeed in being united in the faith in His Resurrection, He will rise earlier. We will evoke Him with our love… Mother, Mother of my Saviour, come back with us, since You are the love of God, to give us this love of Yours! Do You want poor Mary of Magdala to get lost again, after He saved her with so much pity? »
« No. I would be reproached for that. You are right. I must go back… and look for the apostles… the disciples… the relatives everybody… And say… say: have faith. Say: He forgives you Whom have I already told so?… Ah! The Iscariot… I will have to Yes, I will have to look also for him… because he is the biggest sinner… » Mary remains with Her head bent on Her breast, trembling as if She were disgusted, and then She says: « John, you will look for him. And you will bring him to Me. You must do that. And I must do that. Father, let also this be done for the redemption of Mankind. Let us go. »
She stands up. They leave the half-dark vegetable garden. The guards look at them go out without saying anything.
The road, dusty and thrown into a mess by the stream of people who went along it, striking it with their feet, with stones and cudgels, runs round Calvary and arrives at the main road, Which is parallel to the walls. And the traces of what has happened are even clearer here. Twice Mary utters a cry and She Stoops to examine the ground in the feeble light, because She seems to see some blood and She thinks it is the blood of Her Jesus. But it is nothing but tatters of cloth torn off, I think, in the confusion of the flight. The little stream, that flows along the road, babbles softly in the deep silence which has fallen everywhere. The town seems to be forlorn, as nothing but silence comes from it.
They are now at the little bridge that leads to the steep Calvary road. And, in front of it, there is the Judicial Gate. Before disappearing in there, Mary turns round to look at the top of Calvary… and She weeps desolately. Then She says: « Let us go. But lead Me. I do not want to see Jerusalem, its streets, its inhabitants. »
« Yes, but let us be quick. They are about to close the Gates and, see?, their guards have been reinforced. Rome is afraid of turmoils. »
« Quite rightly. Jerusalem is a den of tigers! It is a tribe of killers! It is a rabble of robbers! And those usurpers aim with their rapacious fangs not only at property, but also at lives. For thirty-two years they have laid snares for the life of My Child… He was a little lamb of milk and roses, with golden curly hair… He could hardly say "Mummy", and take His first steps, and laugh with His few teeth between His lips of pale coral, when they came to slaughter Him… Now they say that He had blasphemed, and infringed the Sabbath, and incited people to revolt, and aimed at a throne, and sinned with women… But what had He done then? Which blasphemy could He have uttered, if He could hardly call his Mummy? What Law could He infringe, if He, the Eternal Innocent, then was also the little innocent child of man? What revolt could He stir, if He was not even able to be naughty? Which throne could He aim at? He had His throne both on the Earth and in Heaven, and He did not seek any other: in Heaven He had His Father's bosom, on the Earth My lap. He never cast a sensual glance, and you, young beautiful women, can confirm that. But then, but then… His senses were confined to the need of warmth and nourishment, He made love, yes, but to My tepid breast, to lay His little face on it and sleep so, and to My round nipple, from which My love flowed as milk… Oh! My Child!… And they wanted You dead! That is what they wanted to deprive You of: Your life! Your only treasure. They wanted to deprive the Mother of Her Son, and the Son of His Mother, to make us the most miserable and desolate people in the Universe. Why deprive the Living One of His life? Why unduly claim the right to remove this thing that is life: the gift of the flower and of the animal, the gift of man? My Jesus asked nothing of you. Neither money, nor jewels, nor houses. He had a house, a little holy one, and He left it out of love for you, you men-hyenas. For your sake He had given up what even the young one of an animal has, and poor and alone He had gone through the world, without even the bed that the Just One had made for Him, without even the bread His Mother used to make for Him, and He had slept wherever He could and He had eaten as He was able. In the houses of kind people, like every son of man, or on the grass of meadows, watched over by the stars. Sitting at a table, or sharing the grains of corn or wild blackberries with the birds of God. And He did not ask you for anything. On the contrary, He gave you what He had. He only wanted to live, to give you the Life with His word. And all of you, and you, Jerusalem, have deprived Him of His life. Are you sated and fed with His Blood and His Flesh? Or are you not yet satisfied? And you, a hyena after being a vampire and a vulture, do you want to feed on His Corpse, and not yet satisfied with opprobrium and tortures, do you still want to be pitiless and take delight in disfiguring His remains and seeing once again His spasms, His sobs and convulsions in Me, the Mother of the Murdered One? Have we arrived? Why are you stopping? What does that man want of Joseph? What is he saying? »
Joseph, in fact, has been stopped by one of the rare passersby, and in the dead silence of the deserted town their words are heard very clearly.
« It is known that you have entered Pilate's house. You are a violator of the Law. You will answer for that. Passover is interdicted to you! You are contaminated. »
« And you, too, Helkai. You have touched me and I am all covered with the blood of Christ and with the sweat of His death! »
« Ha! horror! Away, away with that blood! »
« Be not afraid. It has already abandoned and cursed you. »
« And you as well, you cursed one. And now that you are flirting with Pilate, don't think that you can take the Corpse away. We have taken the necessary steps to ensure that the story comes to an end. »
Nicodemus has approached them slowly, while the women have stopped with John, leaning against a closed portal.
« We have seen that » replies Joseph. « Cowards! You are afraid even of a dead body! But of my vegetable garden and of my sepulchre I do what I like. »
« We shall see. »
« We shall see. I will appeal to Pilate. »
« Yes. Fornicate with Rome, now. »
Nicodemus moves forward: « Better with Rome than with the Demon, as you, deicides, do! In any case, tell me: how come you are plucking up courage again? A moment ago you were running away, a prey to terror. Are you recovering already? Is what you had not sufficient yet? Was your house not burnt down? Tremble! The Punishment is not over, on the contrary it is coming. Like the Nemesis of the heathens it is impending over you. Neither guards or seals will prevent the Avenger from rising and striking. »
« Cursed! » Helkai runs away and goes and knocks against the women. He realises that and utters a dreadful insult against Mary.
John does not say one word. With the leap of a panther he clings to him and knocks him down and, pressing him with knees and holding his hands round his neck, he says to him: « Ask Her to forgive you or I will strangle you, you demon. » And he does not relax his hold until the other, pressed and half choked by John's hands, utters gaspingly: « Forgive me. »
But his cry has attracted the attention of the patrol. « Halt there! What's happening? Further seditions? Stand still, all of you, or you will be struck. Who are you? »
« Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus, who have been authorised by the Proconsul to bury the Nazarene Who has been put to death, and we are coming back from the sepulchre with His Mother, a son and women relatives and friends. This man offended the Mother and has been compelled to ask Her forgiveness. »
« Only that? You should have cut his throat. You may go. Soldiers, arrest that man. What else do these vampires want? Also the hearts of mothers? Hail Judaeans! »
« How horrible! But they are no longer men… John, be good to them. Take into consideration the memory of Me and of My Jesus. He preached forgiveness. »
« Mother, You are right. But they are criminals and they make me lose my head. They are sacrilegious, they offend You and I cannot allow that. »
« Yes, they are criminals. And they know that they are. Look how few there are in the streets, and how those few slink away. After committing a crime, delinquents are afraid. It horrifies Me to see them flee thus, enter houses and barricade themselves there, out of fear. I feel that they are all guilty of the Deicide. Look over there, Mary, at that old man. He already has a foot in the grave and yet, now that he is illuminated by the light of that door that has opened, I think I saw him march past accusing My Jesus, up there, on Calvary… He called Him a robber… My Jesus a robber!… That young man, a little more than a boy, uttered obscene blasphemies, invoking His Blood upon himself… Oh! the wretch!… And that man? So brawny and strong, will he have refrained from striking Him? Oh! I do not want to see! Look: the faces of their souls are superimposed on the faces of their bodies and… and they no longer look like men, but like demons… So fearless they were against the Man Who had been tied and crucified… And now they run away, they hide themselves, they shut themselves up. They are afraid. Of whom? Of a dead body. He is nothing but a dead body, as far as they are concerned, because they deny that He is God. So, of what are they afraid? Upon whom are they shutting their doors? Upon remorse. Upon punishment. It is of no avail. Remorse is within you. And it will follow you for ever. And the punishment is not a human one. And locks and sticks, doors and bars are of no use against it. It descends from Heaven, from God, the avenger of His sacrificed Son, and it penetrates through walls and doors, and with its heavenly flame it marks you for the supernatural punishment awaiting you. The world will come to the Christ, to the Son of God and Mine, it will come to Him Whom you have pierced, but you will be those marked for ever, the Cains of a God, marked as the dishonour of the human race. I, Who was born of you, I, Who am the Mother of everybody, must say that with regard to Me, your daughter, you have been more than step-fathers and that, in the immense number of My children, you are the ones who impose the greatest fatigue on Me in receiving you, because you are soiled with the crime against My Child. Neither do you repent saying: "You were the Messiah. We acknowledge and worship You". Here is another Roman patrol. Love is no longer on the Earth. There is no more Peace among men. And Hatred and War are agitated like those smoky torches. The rulers are afraid of the unrestrained crowd. By experience they know that, when that wild beast named man has tasted the flavour of blood, he becomes avid of slaughter… But be not afraid of these men. They are neither royal lions nor panthers. They are very cowardly hyenas. They rush upon defenceless lambs. But they are afraid of the lion armed with lances and authority. Do not fear these creeping jackals. The sound of your steps with hobnailed boots puts them to flight and your shining lances make them meeker than rabbits. 'Those lances! One of the them slit the heart of My Son! Which of them? Their sight pierces My heart… And yet I should like to have them all in My trembling hands, to see which is the one that still has traces of blood, and say: "It is this one! Give Me it, soldier! Give it to a mother in remembrance of your far away mother, and I will pray for her and for you". And no soldier would deny Me it. Because they, the men on the war-path, were the best during the agony of the Son and of the Mother. Oh! why did I not think of that up there? I was like one whose head had been struck. It was already stunned by those blows… Oh! those blows! Who will grant Me not to hear them any more, here, in My poor head? The lance… How much I would like to have it!… »
« We can look for it, Mother. The centurion seemed to be very kind to us. I do not think that he will deny us it. I will go tomorrow. »
« Yes, John. I am poor. I have only a little money. But I will deprive Myself of it, to the last farthing, to have that lance… Oh! why did I not ask for it then? »
« Mary, my dear, none of us were aware of that wound… When You saw it, the soldiers were far away. »
« That is true… Grief has made Me feeble-minded. And His clothes? I have nothing of what belonged to Him! I would give My blood to have them… » Mary weeps again desolately.
And She arrives thus in the street where is the Supper room. And it is time, because She is exhausted and She drags Herself along like an old decrepit woman. And She says so.
« Pluck up heart. We have arrived now. »
« Arrived? So short the road that this morning seemed so long? This morning? Was it this morning? Not before? How many hours and how many ages have gone by since I came here yesterday evening and since I left it this morning? Is it really I, the fifty-year-old Mother, or a very aged woman, a woman of many years ago, laden with years on My bent shoulders and on My white hair? I seem to have lived all the sorrow of the world, and that it is all on My shoulders, which bend under its weight. An incorporeal cross, but so heavy! Of stone. Perhaps even heavier than My Jesus'. Because I carry My cross and His with the remembrance of His torture and with the reality of My torment. Let us go in. Because we must go in. But it is no consolation. It is an increase of sorrow. My Son came in through this door for His last meal. And He went out through it to face death. And He had to put His foot where His traitor had put it, when he went out to call those who had to capture the Innocent. I saw Judas at that door… I saw Judas! And I did not curse him. But I spoke to him as a mother whose heart was torn apart. Tom apart because of the good Son and of the wicked one… I saw Judas! I saw the Demon in him! I, Who have always held Lucifer under My heel, and looking only at God I never lowered My eyes on Satan, I recognised his face looking at the Traitor, I spoke to the Demon… And he ran away, because he cannot bear My voice. Will he have left him now? So that I may speak to that dead body and I, the Mother, may conceive him again with the Blood of a God and bring him forth to Grace? John, swear to Me that you will look for him and that you will not be cruel to him. I am not, although I should be entitled to… Oh! let Me go into that room, where My Jesus had His last meal. Where the voice of My Child spoke His last words in peace! »
« Yes. We shall go. But now, look, come here, where we were yesterday. Have a rest. Say goodbye to Joseph and Nicodemus, who are withdrawing. »
« Yes, I will say goodbye to them. Oh! I say goodbye to them, I thank them. I bless them! »
« Come, do come. You will do so at Your leisure. »
« No. Here. Joseph… Oh! I have not known anybody with this name who did not love Me… »
Mary of Alphaeus bursts into tears.
« Do not weep… Joseph also… It was out of love that your son was mistaking. He wanted to give Me peace in a human way… But today!… You saw him… Oh! all the Josephs are kind to Mary… Joseph, I thank you. And you, Nicodemus… My heart prostrates itself under your feet which are tired because of the long way you have gone for Him… for the last honours paid to Him… I have but My heart to give you… and I give it to you, the loyal friends of My Son… and… and excuse a mother with a pierced heart for the words I spoke to you in the sepulchre… »
« Oh! Holy Mother! Do forgive us! » says Nicodemus.
« Be good, now. Rest in Your Faith. We will come tomorrow » adds Joseph.
« Yes, we will come. We are at Your disposal. »
« It is Sabbath tomorrow » objects the mistress of the house.
« The Sabbath is dead. We will come. The Lord be with you » and they go away.
« Come, Mary. »
« Yes, come, Mother. »
« No. Open. You promised to do so after the greetings. Open this door! You cannot close it to a mother. To a mother who is trying to breathe the smell of the breath, of the body of her child in the air of the room. But do you not know that I gave Him that breath and that body? I, Who carried Him for nine months, Who gave birth to Him, suckled Him, brought Him up and took care of Him? That breath is Mine! The smell of that body is Mine! It is Mine, and it has become more beautiful in My Jesus. Let Me smell it once again. »
« Yes, dear. Tomorrow. You are tired now. You are burning with fever, You cannot. You are not well. »
« Yes. I am not well. Because in My eyes I have the sight of His Blood, and in My nose the smell of His Body covered with sores. Let Me see the table on which He leaned when He was alive and healthy, and let Me smell the scent of His youthful body. Open it! Do not bury Him for the third time! You have already concealed Him under spices and bandages, then you have shut Him up under the stone. Why now deny a Mother the possibility of finding again the last trace of Him in the breath He left beyond this door? Let Me go in. On the floor, on the table, on the seats, I will look for the traces of His feet, of His hands. And I will kiss them, I will kiss them until I consume My lips. I will search… I will search… Perhaps I shall find a fair hair of His head. A hair not encrusted with blood. But do you know what a hair of a son means for a mother? You, Mary of Clopas, you, Salome, are mothers. And do you not understand? John? John? Listen to Me. I am your Mother. He has made Me such. He did! You must obey Me. Open the door! I love you, John. I have always loved you, because you loved Him. I will love you even more. But open the door. Open it, I say! Do you not want to? Do you not want to? Ah! So I no longer have a son!? Jesus never refused Me anything. Because He was My Son. You are refusing. You are not a son. You do not understand My grief… Oh! John, forgive… forgive Me… Open… Do not weep… Open… Oh! Jesus! Jesus!… Listen to Me… Let Your spirit work a miracle! Open to Your Poor Mother this door that nobody wants to open! Jesus! Jesus! »
With clenched fists Mary knocks at the little closed door. It is a paroxysm of torture, until She turns pale and, while whispering: « Oh! My Jesus! I am coming! I am coming! », She collapses without strength into the arms of the weeping women, who support Her to prevent Her from falling at the foot of that door, and they carry Her thus into the room in front of it.
608. The Night of Good Friday.
29th March 1945.
Mary, assisted by the weeping women, comes to Herself and She weeps without having any other strength but that of shedding tears, It really seems that Her life must flow and be consumed completely in Her tears.
They want to give Her some refreshment. Martha offers Her some wine; the mistress of the house would like Her to take at least some honey; Mary of Alphaeus, kneeling in front of Her, offers Her a cup of lukewarm milk, saying: « I milked it myself from little Rachel's goat » (Rachel must be a daughter of the people who live in this house, I do not know whether as tenants or as keepers). But Mary does not want anything. She weeps. She can only weep. And She asks and hears them promise that they will look for the apostles and disciples, for the lance and Jesus' garments, and that at the break of the day, since they do not want to let Her go now, they will let Her go into the Supper room.
« Yes. If You calm down a little, if You rest a little, I will take You there » says Her sister-in-law. « We shall both go in, and on my knees I will look for every trace of Jesus on Your behalf… » and Mary of Alphaeus sobs. « But look! Here You have the chalice and the bread broken by Him and used by Him for the Eucharist. Is there a holier souvenir? See? John brought them for You this morning, so that You might see them this evening… Poor John, he is over there and is weeping and is afraid… »
« Afraid? Why? Come here, John. » John comes out from the shade, because in the room there is only a little lamp placed on the table near the objects of the Passion, and he kneels at the feet of Mary, Who caresses him and asks: « Why are you afraid? »
And John, kissing Her hands and weeping replies: « Because You are not well. You are feverish and worried… And You are not tranquil. And if You continue so, You will die as He did… »
« Oh! I wish it were true! »
« No! Mother! Mama! Oh! It is more pleasant to say: "Mama". As I say to my mother! Let me say so… But, as I find no difference between You and my mother, and I even love You more than I love her, because you are the Mother Whom He gave me and You are His Mother, so do not make too great a difference between the Son born of You, and the son who has been given to You… And love me a little as You love Him… If it were He Who said to You: "I am afraid that You may die", would You reply: "Oh! I wish it were true"? No. You would not say that. On the contrary, You would be sorry to go away and leave Him, Your Lamb, in a world of wolves… And do You not grieve for me?… I am so much more a lamb than He was. Not through goodness and purity, but through stupidity and fear. If I am left without You, poor John will be torn to pieces by wolves without uttering a bleat that speaks of his Master… Do You want me to die so, without serving Him? As stupid in death as in life? No, You do not, do You? So, Mother, try to calm down… For His sake… Oh! do You not say that He will rise from the dead? Yes, You do, and it is true. Then, when He rises, do You want Him to find the house devoid of You? Because He will certainly come here… Oh! poor, poor Jesus, if instead of hearing Your cry of love He should hear our cries of grief, if instead of finding Your breast to rest His tortured glorious head on, He should find Your closed sepulchre… You must live. To greet Him when He comes back… I do not say "to our love". We deserve all kinds of reproach because of our behaviour. But to Your love. Oh! what meeting will it be? And what will He be like? Mother of Wisdom, Mama of the most ignorant John, since You know everything, tell us what He will be like, when He appears after rising from the dead. »
« The sores of Lazarus' legs were healed, but one could see their marks. And He appeared wrapped in bandages full of rottenness » says Martha.
« We had to wash him and wash him over again… » adds Mary.
« And he was weak, and we had to feed him by His order » ends Martha.
« The son of the widow of Nain looked bewildered and he was like a child unable to walk and speak without difficulty, so much so that He gave him back to his mother so that she might teach him to use the gift of life once again. And He Himself guided the first steps of Jairus' little daughter… » says John.
« I think that my Lord will send an angel to us to say: "Come with a clean garment". And my love has already prepared it. It is in the mansion. I could not spin it. But I had it spun by my wet-nurse, who is no longer worried about my future, and does not weep any more. I got the most precious linen and I received the purple from Plautina, and Naomi wove the border; and I made the belt, the bag and the taleth, embroidering them by night not to be seen. I learned from You, Mother. It is not perfect. But rather than by the pearls forming His name on the belt and on the bag, it is made beautiful by the diamonds of my tears of love and by my kisses. Every stitch is a throb of devoutness for Him. And I will take it to Him. You will allow me, will You not? »
« Oh!… I did not think that they would deprive Him of His garment… I am not familiar with the practises of the world and with its ferocity… I thought that I was aware of it… (and tears once again stream down Her pale cheeks) but I see that I did not know anything yet… And I was thinking: "He will have the garment made by His Mother also afterwards". He liked it so much! He wanted it like that. And He had told Me such a long time ago: "You will make a tunic in such a manner. And You will bring it to Me for Passover… Because Jerusalem must see Me in the purple garment of a king… " Oh! that wool, whiter than snow, while I spun it was becoming red in the eyes of God and Mine, because My heart was wounded once again by that word… The other wounds, after years and months, if they had not healed, had dried up by dripping blood. But this one! Every day, every hour, turned the sword round in My heart: "One day less! One hour less! Then He will be dead!" Oh! Oh!… And the yam on the spindle and on the loom became red… Then it was steeped in the dye for the world… But it was already red… »
Mary weeps again. They try to comfort Her speaking to Her of the Resurrection.
Susanna asks: « What do You say? What will He be like when He rises? And how will He rise? »
And Mary, bewildered and blinded in this hour of redeeming martyrdom, replies: « I do not know… I do not know anything any more… Except that He is dead!… »
She bursts into tears again and kisses the linen cloth that Jesus had round His hips, and She presses it to Her heart and lulls it as if it were a baby… And She touches the nails, the thorns, the sponge and shouts: « These are the things that Your Fatherland gave You! Iron, thorns, vinegar, gall! And insults, insults, insults! And among all the sons of Israel a man from Cyrene had to be chosen to carry the cross for You. That man is as sacred to Me as a spouse. And if I knew another one who has helped My Son, I would kiss his feet. So no one took pity on Him? Go out! Go away! It grieves Me even to see you! Because among all of you, you were not able to obtain even a less cruel torture. Useless and idle servants of your King, go out! » She is dreadful in Her outburst. Standing stiff, She looks even taller, with Her imperious eyes, Her arm stretched out pointing at the door. She commands like a queen on her throne.
They all leave without reacting to avoid exciting Her more, and they sit outside the closed door, listening to Her moaning and to any noise She may make. But after the noise of a chair pushed aside
and of Her knees falling on the floor, because She kneels down with Her-head against the table on which are the objects of the Passion, they can only hear Her weep unceasingly and disconsolately.
She whispers, but in such a low voice that those outside cannot hear Her: « Father, Father, forgive Me! I am becoming proud and bad. But You can see that what I say is true. There were crowds around Him. And all Palestine, during these festivals, is inside the holy walls… Holy? No. No longer holy… They would have remained such, if He had breathed His last within them. But Jerusalem rejected Him like a nauseating regurgitation. So only the Crime is in Jerusalem… Well, of all the people that followed Him, they were not able to gather a handful of men who could impose themselves, I do not mean to save Him, because He had to die to redeem, but to let Him die without so much torture. They remained in the shade, or they ran away… My heart revolts at so much cowardice. I am the Mother. So forgive My sin of proud harshness… » and She weeps…
… Outside the others are on tenter-hooks for many reasons. The master of the house, who had gone out to stroll about curiously, comes back in and brings dreadful news. They say that many people died in the earthquake, many were wounded in scuffles between followers of the Nazarene and the Jews, that many have been arrested and that there will be more executions because of rebellions and threats to Rome; that Pilate has given orders to arrest all the followers of the Nazarene and the leaders of the Sanhedrin who are present in town or had already ran away through Palestine; that Johanna is dying in her mansion; that Manaen has been arrested by Herod, whom he insulted in the presence of all the Court as an accomplice of the Deicide. In brief, a pile of catastrophic news…
The women moan. Not so much out of fear for themselves, but for their sons and husbands. Susanna thinks of her husband, who is known as one of Jesus' followers in Galilee. Mary of Zebedee thinks of her husband, who is the guest of a friend, and of her son James, of whom she has had no news since the previous evening. And Martha says sobbing: « Perhaps they have already gone to Bethany! Who did not know what Lazarus was for the Master? »
« But he is protected by Rome » retorts Mary Salome.
« Oh! protected! Considering how much the chiefs of Israel hate us, who knows what charges they will make to Pilate against him… Oh! God! » Martha, not knowing which way to turn, shouts: « The arms! The arms! The house is full of them… and also the mansion! I know! This morning, at dawn, Levi, the guardian came, and he told me… But you know as well! And you told the Jews on Calvary… Fool! You have put in the hands of the cruel people the weapon to kill Lazarus!… »
« I said so. I did. I spoke the truth without knowing. But be quiet, you chicken-hearted woman! What I said is the safest guarantee for Lazarus. They will be wary of venturing on searching where they know there are armed people! They are cowards! »
« Yes, the Jews are. But the Romans are not. »
« I am not afraid of Rome. She is just and peaceful in her provisions. »
« Mary is right » says John. « Longinus said to me: "I hope you Will be left alone. But if you are not, come or send someone to the Praetorium. Pilate is benign towards the followers of the Nazarene. He was generous also towards Him. We will defend you". »
« But if the Jews act by themselves? It was they who captured Jesus yesterday evening! And if they say that we are desecrators, they are entitled to capture us. Oh! My sons! I have four of them! Where will Joseph and Simon be? They were on Calvary and later they came down when Johanna was unable to resist. They came down to help and defend the women, they, the shepherds and Alphaeus… all of them! Oh! They will certainly have already killed them. Did you hear that Johanna is dying? It is certainly because she has been wounded. And before the mob could strike a woman, they must have defended her and were killed!… And Judas and James? My little Judas! My darling! And James as kind as a girl! Oh! I have no children left! I am like the mother of the Maccabean children!… »
All the women weep desperately, except the mistress of the house, who has gone to look for a hiding place for her husband, and Mary Magdalene, who is not weeping. But her eyes are full of fire and she has become the authoritative woman of days gone by. She does not speak. But she darts angry looks at her dejected companions and in her eyes one can read an epithet very clearly: « Cowards! »
Some time goes by so… Now and again one stands up, opens the door slowly, casts a glance and closes the door again.
« What is She doing? » ask the others.
And the person who has looked answers: « She is always on Her knees. She is praying »; or: « She seems to be speaking to someone. » And also: « She has got up and She is gesticulating walking up and down the room. »
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[No date]
Lament of the Blessed Virgin.
« Jesus! Jesus! Jesus! Where are You? Can You still hear Me? Can You hear Your poor Mother, Who is now shouting Your Name, after keeping it in Her heart for so many hours? Your holy blessed Name that has been My love, the love of My lips, which tasted the flavour of honey repeating Your Name, of My lips, which now, instead, when they mention it, seem to be drinking the bitterness left on Your Lips, the bitterness of the terrible mixture. Your Name,
the love of My heart that swelled with joy, when repeating it, as it had swelled to pour off its blood and receive You and clothe You with it, when You descended into Me from Heaven, so small, so tiny, that You could have rested in the calyx of wild mint, You, so great, the Mighty One, humiliated in the embryo of man for the salvation of the world. Your Name, grief of My heart, now that they have torn You away from the caresses of Your Mother, to throw You into the arms of the executioners, who have tortured You to death!
My heart has been crushed by Your Name, that I had to keep within Me for so many hours and whose cry increased more and more as Your sorrow increased, until it crushed it, as if it had been trodden on by the foot of a giant. Oh! My sorrow is a giant and it crushes Me, it shatters Me, and there is nothing that can alleviate it. To whom shall I mention Your Name? Nothing replies to My cry. Even if I shouted so loud that I split the stone closing Your sepulchre, You would not hear Me, because You are dead. You cannot hear Your Mother any more.
How many times have I called You, Son, during these thirty-four years! Since I learned that I was to be a Mother and that My Little one was to be named "Jesus!" You were not yet born and I, caressing My womb, in which You were growing, used to call in a low voice: "Jesus!", and You seemed to move to say: "Mummy!" to me. I had already given You a voice and I dreamed of Your voice. I could hear it before it existed. And when I did hear it, as faint as that of a new-born lamb, tremble in the cold night in which You were born, I became acquainted with the abyss of joy… and I thought that I had become acquainted with the abyss of sorrow, because it was the weeping of My Baby Who was cold, Who was uncomfortable, Who was shedding His first tears of Redeemer, and I had neither fire nor cradle, and I could not suffer in Your stead, Jesus. I had but My lap as fire and cushion, and My love to worship You, My holy Son.
I thought that I had become acquainted with the abyss of sorrow… It was the dawn of that sorrow, it was the edge of that sorrow. Now it is the broad noon, now it is the bottom. This is the abyss, this which I am touching now, after descending into it during these thirty-four years, driven by so many things and prostrated today in the horrible bottom of Your Cross.
When You were a little baby, I used to lull You singing: "Jesus! Jesus!" Which harmony is there more beautiful and holy than this Name, which makes the angels smile in Heaven? To Me it was more beautiful than the song, so sweet, of the angels the night of Your Birth. I could see Heaven in it, the whole of Heaven I could see through that Name. And now, saying it to You Who are dead and cannot hear Me, and You do not reply to Me, as if You had never existed, I see Hell, the whole of Hell. See, now I understand what it means to be damned. It is to be no longer able to say: "Jesus!" Horrible! Horrible! Horrible!…
How long will this hell last for Your Mother? You said: "Within three days I will rebuild this Temple". I have been repeating these words to Myself all day today, in order not to drop dead, to be ready to greet You when You come back and go on serving You… But how shall I be able to put up for three days with the knowledge that You are dead? You, My Life, for three days dead?
How come, You, Who know everything, because You are the infinite Wisdom, are not aware of the torture of Your Mother? Can You not imagine it, remembering the day I lost You in Jerusalem, and You saw Me squeeze through the crowd around You, looking like a shipwrecked person that touches the shore, after struggling so much with waves and death, with the countenance of a woman who comes out of a torture exhausted, almost bled to death, aged, heart-broken? And then it was possible for me to think that You were just lost. I could delude Myself that it was only that. But not today. Not today. I know that You are dead. No illusion is possible. I saw You being killed. And even if grief should make Me lose My memory, here is Your Blood on My veil and it says to Me: "He is dead! He is bloodless! These are the last drops that gushed out of His Heart!" Out of His Heart! Out of the Heart of My Child! Of My Son! Of My Jesus! Oh! God, merciful God, do not let Me remember that they split His Heart!…
Jesus! I cannot stay here, alone, while You are there, all alone. I, Who have never loved the roads of the world and crowds, and You know, after You left Nazareth, have more and more frequently followed You, in order not to live far from You. I could not live away from You. I faced oddities and derision, I do not take into account fatigue, because it was obliterated by the joy of seeing You, just to live where You were. And now I am here all alone. And You are there, all alone! Why did they not leave Me in Your sepulchre? I would have sat beside Your chilly bed, holding one hand of Yours in Mine, to make You feel that I was near You… No, to feel that You were close to Me. You do not feel anything any more. You are dead!
How often have I spent the night near Your cradle, praying, loving, taking delight in You! Shall I tell You how You slept, with Your little fists closed like two flower buds near Your holy little face? Shall I tell You how you used to smile in Your sleep and, certainly remembering Your Mummy's milk, You made the gesture of sucking, while sleeping? Shall I tell You how You woke up and opened Your eyes and laughed, seeing Me bent over Your face, and You stretched Your little hands joyfully, as You were anxious to be taken by Me, and how with a little cry as sweet as the trill of a blackcap You claimed Your food? Oh! I was happy when You clung to My breast and I felt the smooth tepidity of Your cheeks, the caresses of Your little hands on My mamma!
You could not stay away from Your Mother. And now You are alone! Forgive Me, Son, for leaving You alone, for not rebelling for the first time in My life and for not insisting on remaining there. It was My place. I would have felt less desolate, if I had remained near Your funereal bed, to arrange Your clothes, as in days gone by, and change them… Even if You could not have smiled at and spoken to Me, I would have felt as if I had You again as when You were a baby. I would have held You to My heart, in order not to make You feel the chillness of the stone, the hardness of the marble. Did I not hold You also today? The lap of a mother is always capable of holding a son, even if he is grown-up man. A son is always a baby for his mother, even if he is one who has been taken down from a cross, covered with sores and wounds.
How many! How many wounds! How much sorrow! Oh! My Jesus, My Jesus so wounded! So wounded! So wounded! No. No. Lord, no! It cannot be true! I am mad! Jesus dead? I am raving. Jesus cannot die! Yes, He can suffer. But He cannot die. He is the Life! He is the Son of God. He is God. God does not die.
Does He not die? Then, why has He been named Jesus? What does "Jesus" mean? It means… oh! it means: "Saviour"! He is dead! He is dead because He is the Saviour! He had to save everybody losing Himself… I am not raving. No. I am not mad. No. I wish I were! I should suffer less! He is dead. Here is His Blood. Here is His crown. Here are the three nails. They have pierced Him with them!
Men, look with what you have pierced God, My Son! And I must forgive you. And I must love you. Because He has forgiven you. Because He told Me to love you. He made Me your Mother, the Mother of the killers of My Child! One of His last words, struggling against the death-rattle at His agony… "Mother, here is Your son… your sons!" Even if I were not She Who obeys, today I would have had to obey, because it was the order of a dying man.
So, Jesus. I forgive. I love them. Ah! My hearts breaks in this forgiveness and in this love! Do You hear that I am forgiving them and loving them? I am praying for them. Yes, I am praying for them… I am closing My eyes not to see these objects of Your torture, to be able to forgive them, love them and pray for them. Each nail serves to crucify a will of Mine not to forgive, not to love, not to pray for Your executioners.
I must, I want to think that I am near Your cradle. Also then I prayed for men. But it was easy then. You were alive and I, although I thought that men were cruel, I never went so far as to think that they could be so cruel to You, Who had assisted them excessively. I prayed and I was convinced that Your Word would make them better men. In My heart I said to them, looking at them: "You are bad, diseased, now, brothers. But before long He will speak, before long He will defeat Satan in you. He will give you the Life lost! The life lost! It is You, You, You, Who have lost Your life for them, My Jesus! If, when You were in Your swaddling-clothes, I had seen all today's horror, My sweet milk would have turned into poison through grief!
Simeon said so: "And a sword will pierce Your heart". A sword? A mass of swords! How many wounds did they inflict on You, Son? How many groans did You utter? From how many spasms did You suffer? How many drops of blood did You shed? Well, each of them is a sword in Me. I am a mass of swords. There is not a strip of skin on You without sores. In Me there is not one that has not been pierced. They pierce My flesh and penetrate My heart.
When I was expecting You, I prepared Your swaddling-clothes and napkins, spinning the softest linen on the Earth. I did not mind the price, providing I had the softest cloth. How beautiful You looked in the swaddling-clothes made by Your Mother! Everybody said to Me: "Your Child is beautiful, Donna!" You were lovely! From the white linen there appeared Your rosy little face, Your eyes were bluer than the sky, and Your little head seemed enveloped in a golden mist, so fair and soft was Your hair. It smelt of blossoms of almond-trees. People thought that I put scent on You. No. My Darling had but the scent of the swaddling-clothes washed by His Mother, warmed and kissed by Her heart and lips. I was never tired of working for You…
And now? Now I have nothing more to do for You. For three years You have been away from home. But You were still the aim of My days. I thought of You. Of Your clothes. Of Your food: I kneaded flour and baked bread, I looked after the bees to give You honey, I took care of the trees, so that they might yield fruit for You. How much You loved the things that Your Mother brought You! No food of a rich table, no garment of precious cloth was for You like those woven, sewn, taken care of, picked by the hands of Your Mother. When I came to You, You looked at once at My hands, as You used to do when You were a little boy, and Joseph and I gave You our poor gifts, to make You feel that You were "our" King. You have never been greedy, My Child; it was love that You were seeking, that was Your food, and You found it in our attentions. Even now You found it and were looking for it, poor Son of Mine, so little loved by the world!
Now, nothing more. Everything has been accomplished. Your Mother will not do anything any more for You. You no longer need anything. Now You are alone… And I am alone… Oh! happy Joseph, who has not seen this day! I wish I had never seen it either! But in that case You would not have had even this comfort of seeing Your poor Mother. You would have been all alone on the cross, as You are alone in the sepulchre. All alone with Your wounds.
Oh! God! God! How many wounds has Your Son, My Son! How was I able to see them without dying, whereas I almost fainted every time You hurt Yourself when You were a child?
Once You fell in the kitchen garden in Nazareth and You hurt Your forehead. Only a few drops of blood. But I, Who felt I was dying when I saw the drops of Your Blood at the Circumcision, and Joseph had to support Me as I was shaking like one who is dying, I thought that that tiny cut would kill You and I cured it more with My tears than with water and oil, and I was not at peace until I saw that it no longer bled. Another time, You were learning to work and You hurt Yourself with a saw. A slight wound. But I felt as if the saw had cut Me in two. I had no rest until six days later, when I saw Your hand healed.
And now? And now? Now You have Your hands, feet, side ripped, now Your flesh is falling in pieces, Your face is bruised, that Face which I did not dare to touch lightly with a kiss, and Your forehead and the nape of Your neck are ulcerated. And no one gave You medicament or comfort.
Look at My heart, God, Who have struck Me in My Child! Look at it! Is it not as covered with sores as the Body of Your Son and Mine? The scourges have come down on Me like hailstones, while He was being lashed. What is distance for love? I suffered the torture of My Son! I wish I alone had suffered it, and that I alone were on the sepulchral stone! Look at Me, God! Is My heart not bleeding?
Here is the circle of thorns, I can feel it. It is a band that squeezes and pierces it. Here is the hole of the nails: three stylets driven into My heart. Oh! those blows! Those blows! How did Heaven not collapse because of those sacrilegious blows on the flesh of God? And not being able to shout! Not being able to rush forward and snatch the weapon from the killers and use it to defend My Child, Who was already dying. But having to hear and hear… and not do anything! A stroke on the nail, and the nail penetrates the living flesh. Another stroke, and it penetrates even more. And another, another one, and bones and nerves break, and the flesh of My Child is pierced, and the heart of His Mother! And when they raised You on Your Cross? How much You must have suffered, Holy Son! I can still see Your hand torn by the shock of the drop. And My heart is torn likewise.
I am bruised, scourged, stung, struck, pierced like You. I was not with You on the cross. But look at Your Mother. Is She different from You? No, there is no difference of martyrdom. On the contrary, Yours is over. Mine is still on. You no longer hear the false charges; I do. You no longer hear the horrible curses. I still hear them. You no longer feel the bites of thorns and nails, You are no longer Parched or feverish. I am full of points of fire and I am like one who
is dying of thirst and delirious fever.
If they had even allowed Me to give You a drop of water. My tears, if the ferocity of men denied the Creator the water created by Him. I gave You suck for a long time, because we were Poor, My Son, and in our flight into Egypt we had lost so much, and we had to get a new house, furniture, clothes and food, and we did not know how long the exile would last, or what we would have found going back to our country. I gave You suck longer than the usual period of time, so that You might not feel the lack of food. Until we got the little goat, I was Your little goat, Child of Your Mummy. You already had so many little teeth, and You used to bite… Oh! what a joy to see You laugh in Your childish games!…
You wanted to walk. You were so healthy and strong. I held You up for hours and hours, and I did not feel My back break being bent over You, Who were taking Your first steps and at each step You would say: "Mummy, Mummy!" Oh! what a beatitude to hear You sing that name! Also today You were saying: "Mother, Mother!" But Your Mother could only see You die! I could not even caress Your feet! Your feet? Ah! even if they had been within reach, I would not have been able to touch them, to avoid increasing Your torture. How much Your poor feet must have suffered, o My Jesus!
If only I could have come up to You and placed Myself between the wood and Your body, and prevented You from rubbing against the wood in the convulsions of the agony! I can still hear Your head knock against the wood in the last gasps. And that sound, that sound drives Me mad. It is in My head… like a hammer.
Come back, come back, My dear holy Son! I am dying. I cannot bear this desolation of Mine. Show Me Your face once again. Call Me again. I cannot think that You have no voice, no eyes, that You are a cold lifeless corpse. Oh! Father, assist Me! Jesus does not hear Me! Is His Passion not over? Is it not all accomplished? Are these nails, these thorns, this blood, the-se tears of Mine not sufficient? Is still more required to heal man?
Father, I am mentioning the instruments of His sorrow and My tears. But that is the least important. What made Him die tortured in a superhuman manner was Your abandonment. What makes Me shout is Your abandonment. I cannot hear You any more! Where are You, holy Father? I was the "Full of Grace". The Angel said: "Hail, Mary, full of Grace, the Lord is with You and You are blessed amongst all women". No. It is not true! It is not true! I am like a woman cursed by You for her sin. You are no longer with Me. Grace has withdrawn, as if I were a second Eve sinner.
But I have always been faithful to You. In what have I displeased You? You have dealt with Me as You liked, and I have always said to You: "Yes, Father. I am ready". So, can angels lie? And Anne, who assured Me that You would give Me Your angel in the hour
of sorrow? I am alone. I no longer have grace in Your eyes, I no longer have You, Grace, in Me. I no longer have an angel. So, do saints lie? In what have I displeased You, if they do not lie and I have deserved this hour?
And Jesus? What wrong has Your pure meek Lamb done? In what have we offended You to deserve the incalculable torture of Your abandonment, in addition to the martyrdom given by men? He, above all, He was Your Son and He called You with that voice that made the Earth shudder and shake in a sob of pity. How could You abandon Him all alone in such a torture?
Poor Heart of Jesus, Who loved You so much! Where is the sign of the wound of His Heart? Here it is. Look, Father, at this sign. This is the impression of My hand that entered the gash of the lance-thrust. Here… Here… It cannot be erased either by the tears or by the kisses of His Mother, Whose eyes are dry through weeping and Whose lips are consumed through kissing. This sign shouts and reproaches. This sign cries to You from the Earth more than Abel's blood. And You, Who cursed Cain and revenged Yourself on him, did not intervene on behalf of My Abel already bled by His Cains, and You allowed this last outrage! Your crushed His Heart with Your abandonment and You allowed a man to strip Him, so that I might see Him and be crushed. With regard to Me, it does not matter. It is for Him, for Him that I ask and call You to answer. You should not have done that…
Oh! forgive Me! Forgive Me, Holy Father! Forgive a Mother Who is mourning Her Child… He is dead! My Son is dead! Dead with His Heart rent! Oh! Father! Father, have mercy! I love You! We have loved You and You have loved us so much. How did You allow the Heart of Our Son to be rent? Oh! Father!… Father, have mercy on a poor woman! I am blaspheming, Father! I, Your servant, Your nonentity, dare reproach You! Have mercy! You have been good. You have been good. The wound, the only wound that did not hurt Him, is this one. Your abandonment served to make Him die before sunset avoiding other tortures.
You have been good. You do everything for a purpose of good. It is we creatures who do not understand. You have been good. You have been good! O My soul, repeat that word, to remove the sting of Your suffering from Your suffering. God is good and has always loved You, My soul. From Your cradle to the present moment, He has always loved You. He has given You all the joy of the time. All of it. He has given You Himself. He has been good. Good. Good. Thank You, Lord. May You be Blessed for Your infinite goodness!
Thank You. Jesus, I say "thank You" also on Your behalf. This wound at least was not felt by You, Son! I only felt it in My Heart, when I saw Yours opened. Your lance is now in My heart and it rummages and tortures. But it is better so! You do not feel it. But, have
mercy, Jesus! A sign from You! A caress, a word for Your Poor Mother, Whose heart is torn to pieces! A sign, a sign, Jesus, if You want to find Me alive when You come back! »
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[29th March 1945]
A loud knock at the door makes everyone start. The master of the house bravely runs away. Mary of Zebedee would like her John to follow him and pushes him towards the yard. The other women, with the exception of the Magdalene, press against one another moaning.
It is Mary of Magdala who goes straight and resolutely to the door and asks: « Who is it? »
The voice of a woman replies: « I am Nike. I have something to be given to the Mother. Open! Quick. The patrol is around. »
John, who has freed himself from his mother and has rushed towards the Magdalene, busies himself with the many locks, which are well fastened this evening. He opens the door. Nike comes in with a servant and a brawny man who is escorting them. They close the door.
« I have a thing… » says Nike weeping and she is unable to speak…
« What? What? » They are all around her, full of curiosity.
« On Calvary… I saw the Saviour in that state… I had prepared a loincloth, so that He would not have to use the rags of the executioners… But He was so wet with perspiration, with blood in His eyes, that I thought I should give it to Him to wipe Himself. He did so… And He gave the cloth back to me. I have not used it again… I wanted to keep it as a relic with His perspiration and blood. And seeing the fury of the Jews, shortly afterwards, with Plautina and the other Roman ladies Lydia and Valeria, we decided to come back, for fear they might take this linen cloth from us. The Romans are brave women. They put the servant and me in the middle and they protected us. It is true that they are contamination for Israel… and that it is dangerous to touch Plautina. But one thinks of that in peaceful times. Today they were all drunk… At home I wept… for hours… Then there was the earthquake and I fainted… When I came to myself, I wanted to kiss that linen cloth and I saw… oh!… The face of the Redeemer is on it!… »
« Let us see! Let us see! »
« No. The Mother first. It is Her right. »
« She is so exhausted! She will not be able to resist… »
« Oh! don't say that! On the contrary, it will comfort Her. Tell Her! » John knocks at the door lightly.
« Who is it? »
« It is I, Mother. Nike is here… She came during the night… She brought a souvenir to You… a gift… She hopes to comfort You with it. »
« Oh! one gift only can comfort Me! The smile of His Face… »
« Mother! » John embraces Her lest She should fall, and as if he were confiding the true Name of God, he says: « It is that. The smile of His Face, impressed on a linen cloth with which Nike wiped Him on Calvary. »
« Oh! Father! Most High God! Holy Son! Eternal Love! May You be blessed! The sign! The sign I asked of You. Let her, let her come in! »
Mary sits down, because She cannot stand any longer, and while John beckons to the women, who are peeping into the room, to let Nike pass, She recovers Herself.
Nike goes in and kneels at Her feet with the servant beside her. John, standing near Mary, holds his arm round Her shoulders, as if he wanted to support Her. Nike does not utter one word. But she opens the casket, takes the linen cloth out and unfolds it. And the Face of Jesus, the living Face of Jesus, the sorrowful and yet smiling Face of Jesus looks at His Mother and smiles at Her.
Mary utters a cry of sorrowful love and stretches out Her arms. The women echo Her cry from the door-space where they have crowded. And they imitate Her kneeling before the Face of the Saviour.
Nike cannot find words. She hands the linen cloth over to the motherly hands and she stoops to kiss its edge. She then goes out backwards without waiting for Mary to come out of Her ecstasy.
She goes away… She is already out, in the night, when they think of her… There is nothing to be done except to close the door, as it was before.
Mary is once again alone. In a conversation of Her soul with the image of Her Son, because they all withdraw again.
Some more time goes by. Then Martha says: « What shall we do for the ointments? Tomorrow is the Sabbath »
« And we shall not be able to get anything » says Salome.
« And we should do that Many pounds of aloe and myrrh… but He was so badly washed »
« We ought to have everything ready by dawn on the first day after the Sabbath » remarks Mary of Alphaeus.
« And what about the guards? What shall we do? » asks Susanna.
« We shall tell Joseph, if they do not let us go in » replies Martha.
« We shall not be able to shift the stone by ourselves. »
The Magdalene replies: « Oh! do you think that five of us will not be able? We are all strong… and love will do the rest. »
« In any case I will come with you » says John.
« Certainly not you. I do not want to lose you as well, son. »
« Don't worry about it. We shall be enough. »
« But in the meantime Who will give us the spices? »
They are all depressed Then Martha says: « We could have asked
Nike whether it was true about Johanna… about the rebellions… »
« That is true! But we are dull-witted. We could have taken also the spices then. Isaac was at the doorstep when we came back… »
« In the mansion there are many small vases of essences, and there is some fine incense. I will go and get them. » And Mary Magdalene stands up from her seat and puts on her mantle.
Martha shouts: « You shall not go. »
« I will go. »
« You are mad! They will get you! »
« Your sister is right. Don't go! »
« Oh! what useless howling females you are! Jesus really had a fine group of followers! Have you already used up your reserve of courage? With regard to me, the more I use the more I get. »
« I will go with her. I am a man. »
« And I am your mother and I forbid you. »
« Be good, Mary Salome, and you, too, John. I will go by myself. I am not afraid. I know what it is like going round the streets at night. I have done that thousands of times for sinful reasons… and should I be afraid now that I am going to serve the Son of God? »
« But there is a revolt in town today. You heard what the man said. »
« He is faint-hearted. And you are like him. I am going. »
« And if the soldiers find you? »
« I will say: "I am the daughter of Theophilus, the Syrian, a faithful servant of Caesar". And they will let me go. In any case… A man before a beautiful young woman is a more harmless plaything than a stalk of straw. I know, much to my shame… »
« But how do you expect to find perfumes in the mansion if no one has lived in it for years? »
« Do you think so? Oh! Martha! Do you not remember that Israel forced you to leave it, because it was one of my meeting-places with my lovers? I kept everything there that served to make them even more crazy about me. When I was saved by my Saviour, in a place known only to me, I concealed the alabasters and incenses that I used for my orgies of love. And I swore that only the tears shed on my sins and the adoration of the Most Holy Jesus would be the scented waters and the burning incenses of repentant Mary. And that I would use those signs of a profane cult of senses and of the flesh only to sanctify them on Him and to anoint Him. This is the hour. I am going. Remain here. And be calm. The angel of God will come with me and no harm will befall me. Goodbye. I will bring you news. And do not say anything to Her… You would increase Her worries… » And Mary of Magdala goes out sure of herself and imposing.
« Mother, let that be a lesson for you… And may it say to you: do not let the world say that your son is a coward. Tomorrow, no, today,
because this is already the second watch, I will go looking for my companions, as She wants… »
« It is the Sabbath… you cannot… » objects Salome to detain him.
« "The Sabbath is dead". I also say with Joseph. The new era has begun. Other laws, other sacrifices and ceremonies for it. »
Mary of Salome bends her head on her knees and weeps without protesting any more.
« Oh! I wish we could have news of Lazarus » says Mary of Clopas with a moan.
« If you let me go, you will have news, because Simon the Cananean had instructions to take my companions to Lazarus. Jesus told Simon when I was present. »
« Alas! Are they all there? So they are all lost! » Mary of Clopas and Salome weep desolately.
More time passes while they weep and wait. Then Mary Magdalene comes back triumphantly, laden with bags full of small precious vases.
« See, nothing has happened to me. Here are oils of all kinds, and nard, and olibanum, and benzoin. There is no myrrh and no aloe… I did not want any bitterness… I am drinking it all now… In the meantime we will mix these and tomorrow we will get… oh! if we pay, Isaac will give them also on a Sabbath… We will get myrrh and aloe. »
« Did anyone see you? »
« No one. There is not even a bat around. »
« And the soldiers? »
« The soldiers? I think they must be snoring in their pallets. »
« What about the seditions… the arrests… »
« The fear of that man saw them… »
« Who is in the mansion? »
« Levi and his wife. As peaceful as children. The armed men have fled… ha! ha! fine brave men we have, honestly!… They ran away as soon as they heard of the death sentence. I tell you the truth: Rome is hard and uses the scourge… But by it she makes people fear her and serve her. And she has men, not cowards… Oh! yes! He used to say: "My followers will experience the same destiny as Mine". H'm! If many Romans become followers of Jesus, that may be true. But if there are to be martyrs among the Israelites! He will remain alone… Here. This is my sack. And this one is Johanna's, who… yes. We are not only cowards, but also liars. Johanna is only depressed. She and Eliza felt ill on Golgotha. One is a mother whose son died, and, as she heard the death-rattles of Jesus, she was badly upset. The other is delicate and not used to so much walking and exposure to the sun. But there are no wounds and no agonies. She certainly weeps, as we do. Nothing else. She regrets that she was taken away. She will come tomorrow. And she sends these spices. The ones she
had. As ordered by Plautina, Valeria had remained with her, and now she has gone with the slaves to Claudia's house, because they have much incense. When she comes, because she, too, by the grace of Heaven, is not an ever trembling coward, don't start shouting as if you felt the dagger at your throats-. Come on. Get up. Let us take the mortars and work. Weeping is of no avail. Or at least weep and work. Our balm will be mixed with our tears. And He will feel them upon Himself… He will feel our love. » And she bites her lips, not to weep and to give strength to the others, who are really depressed.
They work eagerly. Mary calls John.
« Mother, what is the matter? »
« Those blows… »
« They are pounding incenses… »
« Ah!… But forgive Me… Don't make that noise… they sound like the hammers… » In fact the bronze pestles striking the marble of the mortars make the exact noise of hammers.
John tells the women, who go out into the yard, in order not to be heard so much. John goes back to the Mother.
« How did they get them? »
« Mary of Lazarus went to her house and to Johanna's… Also some more will be brought… »
« Did anybody come? »
« Nobody after Nike. »
« But look at Him, John, how handsome He is also in His sorrow! » Mary is absorbed in contemplation, with Her hands joined, before the cloth, which She has spread out on a chest holding it with some weights.
« Handsome, yes, Mother. And He is smiling at You… Do not weep any more… Some hours have already gone by. There is less to wait for His return… » and in the meantime John weeps…
Mary caresses his cheek. But She looks only at the image of Her, Son.
John goes out, blinded by his tears.
Also the Magdalene, who has come back to get some amphorae, is in the same state. But she says to the Apostle: « We must not let them see that we are weeping. Because, otherwise, the women over there will not be able to do anything. And we have to do… »
« … and we have to believe » concludes John.
« Yes. We must believe. If one were not able to believe, it would be despair. I believe. And you? »
« I, too… »
« You say so badly. You do not love enough yet. If you loved with your whole self, it would not be possible for you not to believe. Love is light and voice. Also against the darkness of denial and the silence of death it says: "I believe". » Wonderful is the Magdalene,
so great and imposing, authoritative in her confession of faith! Her heart must be torn to pieces. And her eyes inflamed by tears confirm that. But her spirit is undefeated.
John looks at her full of admiration and whispers: « You are strong! »
« Always. I was so much, that I dared to defy the world. And I was, then, without God. Now that I have Him, I feel I know how to defy also hell. You, who are good, should be stronger than I am. Because sin disheartens, you know? More than consumption. But you are innocent… That is why He loved you so much… »
« He loved you as well… »
« And I was not innocent. But I was His conquest and…
There is a loud knock at the door.
It may be Valeria. Open the door. »
John does so without any fear, dominated by Mary's calm.
It is in fact Valeria with her slaves, who are carrying the litter, from which she comes out. She goes in uttering the Latin greeting: « Salve. »
« Peace be with you, sister. Come in » says John.
« May I offer the Mother the homage of Plautina? Claudia also has contributed. But if it is not grievous for Her to see me. »
John goes in to Mary.
« Who is knocking? Peter? Judas? Joseph? »
« No. It is Valeria. She has brought some precious resins. She would like to offer them to You… if that does not grieve You. »
« I must overcome grief. He called the children of Israel and the heathens to His Kingdom. He called everybody. Now… He is dead… But I am here for Him. And I receive everybody. Let her come in. »
Valeria enters. She has taken off her dark mantle and she is all white in her stole. She stoops to the ground. She greets and speaks. « Domina. You know who we are. The first women redeemed from heathen obscurantism. We were dirt and darkness. Your Son has given us wings and light. Now He is… sleeping in peace. We know your customs. And we want also the balms of Rome to be spread on the Triumpher. »
« May God bless you, daughters of My Lord. And… forgive Me if I am not able to say more… »
« Do not make any effort, Domina. Rome is strong. But she can also understand grief and love. She understands You, Sorrowful Mother. Goodbye. »
« Peace be with you, Valeria! My blessing to Plautina, to all of you. »
Valeria withdraws leaving her incenses and other essences.
« See, Mother? The whole world is making offerings to the King of Heaven and Earth. »
« Yes » says Mary. « The whole world. And His Mother will have
been able to give Him nothing but tears.. »
A cock crows joyfully somewhere nearby. John starts.
« What is the matter, John? » asks the Blessed Virgin.
« I was thinking of Simon Peter… »
« But was he not with you? » asks the Magdalene who has gone back into the room.
« Yes. In Annas' house. Then I understood that I had to come here. And I have not seen him again. »
« It will soon be dawn. »
« Yes. Open the windows. »
They open the window coverings, and their faces look even wanner in the greenish dawn light.
The night of Good Friday is over.
609. The Redeeming Value of Jesus' and Mary's Sufferings. John Is the Head of Lovers.
[20th February 1944]
Now, it is already night-time, Jesus says:
« You have seen how much it costs to be Saviours. You have seen it in Me and in Mary. You have become acquainted with all our tortures and you have seen with what generosity, with what heroism, with what patience, with what meekness, with what perseverance, with what strength we have suffered them through our love to save you.
All those who want, who ask the Lord God to make them "saviours", must thoroughly consider that Mary and I are the model and that those are the tortures they must share in order to save. Their torture will not be the cross, the thorns, the nails, the material scourges. They will be different, of a different form and nature. But equally painful and equally consuming. And only by consuming the sacrifice amid those sorrows can you become saviours.
It is an austere mission. The most austere of them all. The one compared to which the life of the monk or of the nun of the strictest rule is a flower compared to a mass of thorns. Because it is not a rule of a human Order. But the Rule of a priesthood, of a divine monastic life, of which I am the Founder, I, Who in My Rule, in My Order, consecrate and receive those elected to it, and impose My habit on them: total Sorrow, even to sacrifice.
You have seen My sufferings. They have been applied to make amends for your sins. No part of My body was excluded from them, because nothing in man is free from sin, and all the parts of your physical and moral egos - that ego that God gave you with the perfection of divine work and that you have depreciated with the sin of your first parent and with your tendencies to evil, with your bad will - are instruments of which you make use to commit sin. But
I have come to cancel the effects of sin with My Blood and My sorrow, washing your individual physical and moral parts in them, to cleanse and strengthen them against culpable tendencies.
My hands were wounded and imprisoned, after they had become tired carrying the Cross, to make amends for all the crimes committed by the hands of man. From the true and proper ones committed holding and operating a gun against a brother, turning yourselves into Cains, to those perpetrated stealing, writing false accusations, making gestures against the respect of your bodies and other people's, and idling in laziness, which is propitious ground for your vices. For the illicit freedom of your hands, I had Mine crucified, nailing them to the cross, depriving them of every movement more than lawful and necessary.
The Feet of your Saviour, after becoming tired and bruised on the stones of the Way of My Passion were pierced and immobilised, to make amends for the evil you do with your feet, making them means to go to your crimes, thefts, fornications. I marked the streets, the squares, the houses, the steps in Jerusalem, to purify all the streets, the squares, the houses, the steps of the earth from all the evil that had grown on and in it, sown in past and future centuries by your bad will, obedient to Satan's instigations.
My Flesh was bruised, contused, torn to punish in Me the exaggerated cult, the idolatry that you give to your flesh and to the flesh of those whom you love out of a sensual whim or also out of fondness, which is not blameworthy in itself, but you make it such by loving a parent, a husband, a son, a brother more than you love God.
No. Above all love and every tie on the earth, there is, there must be the love for your Lord God. No other love is to be superior to it. Love your relatives in God, not above God. Love God with your whole selves. That will not absorb your love to the extent of making you indifferent towards your relatives, on the contrary it will nourish your love for them with the perfection attained from God, because he who loves God has God in himself and, having God, has Perfection.
I turned My Flesh into one sore to remove from your flesh the poison of sensuality, of lack of modesty, of lack of respect, of ambition and admiration for the flesh destined to become dust again. It is not with the cult for the body that one makes it beautiful. It is with detachment from it that one gives it the eternal Beauty in the Heaven of God.
My Head was tortured with countless tortures: with blows, with exposure to the sun, with shouts, with thorns, to make amends for the sins of your minds. Pride, impatience, unbearableness, intolerance spring up like a mushroom-bed in your brains. I turned it into a tortured organ, enclosed in a casket decorated with blood, to make amends for everything that sprouts from your thought.
You have seen the only crown I wanted. The crown that only a madman or a convict can wear. No one, who is sound of mind (speaking from a human point of view) and is free to do what he likes, will put it on. But I was considered mad and mad I was from a supernatural divine point of view, as I wanted to die for you who do not love Me or love Me so little, as I wanted to die to defeat Evil in you, knowing that you love it more than you love God, and I was a prey to man, his prisoner, condemned by him. I, God, condemned by man.
How often you lose your patience over trifles, you become incompatible through trivialities, you are unbearable because of light indispositions! But look at your Saviour. Consider how irritating it must have been to be continuously stung in different parts, to have the locks of My hair entangled in the thorns, to feel the crown move continuously without being able to move My head, and not being able to lean it anywhere without being tortured! But think of what the shouts of the crowds, the blows on My head, the scorching sun were for My tortured, aching, feverish Head! Consider what pain I felt in My poor brain, since I went to the agony of Friday aching all over because of the efforts made Thursday evening, in My poor brain, which was affected by the fever of My tortured Body and of the intoxications brought about by tortures!
And in My Head, My eyes, My mouth, My nose, My tongue, each had their torture. To make amends for your glances, so anxious to see what is evil and so forgetful of seeking God, to redress the too many, too false, filthy and lustful words that you utter, instead of using your lips to pray, to teach, to console; My nose and My tongue suffered their tortures to make amends for your gluttony and your sensuality of olfaction, through which you incur imperfections, which are the ground for graver sins, and you commit sins through the eagerness for superfluous food, without taking pity on those who are hungry, food which you can afford very often by having recourse to unlawful means of profit.
My organs were not exempted from suffering. Not one of them. Suffocation and cough for My lungs, contused by the cruel scourging, and suffering from oedema because of the position on the cross. Breathlessness and heart trouble as My heart was out of its place and had been injured by the merciless flagellation, by the moral grief that had preceded it, by the ascent under the heavy weight of the cross, by anaemia, the consequence of all the blood shed. Liver congested, spleen congested, kidneys bruised and congested.
You have seen the crown of bruises round My kidneys. Your scientists, to give proof to your incredulity with regard to that evidence of My suffering, which is the Shroud, explain how the blood, the cadaveric perspiration and the urea of an overfatigued body, when mixed with the spices, can have produced that natural drawing of
My dead tortured Body.
It would be better to believe without the need of so many proofs to believe. It would be better to say: "That is the work of God" and bless God, Who has granted you an indisputable proof of My Crucifixion and of the tortures preceding it!
But as now you are no longer able to believe with the simplicity of children, but you need scientific proofs - how poor is your faith, that without the support and the spur of science cannot stand up straight and walk - you must know that the cruel bruises of My kidneys have been the most powerful chemical agent in the miracle of the Shroud. My kidneys, almost crushed by the scourges, were no longer able to work. Like those of people burnt by fire, they were unable to filter, and urea accumulated and spread in My blood, in My body, bringing about the sufferings of uraemic intoxication and the reagent that oozed out of My corpse and fixed the impression on the cloth. But any doctor among you, or anyone suffering from uraemia, will realise what sufferings the uraemic toxins caused to Me, as they were so plentiful as to produce an indelible impression.
Thirst. What a torture thirst! And yet you have seen it. Among so many, there was not one who gave Me a drop of water. From the Supper onwards, I had no refreshment. And fever, sunshine, heat, dust, loss of blood, made your Saviour so thirsty.
You have seen that I refused the wine mixed with myrrh. I did not want any lenitive for My suffering. When we offer ourselves as victims, we must be victims without pitiful arrangements, compromises, mitigations. It is necessary to drink the chalice as it is offered. We must relish the vinegar and gall to the very end. Not the spiced wine that deadens pain.
Oh! the destiny of a victim is really severe. But blessed are those who chose it as their fate.
That was the suffering of your Jesus in His innocent Body. And I will not mention the tortures of My love for My Mother and for Her sorrow. That sorrow was required. But for Me it was the most cruel torture. Only the Father knows what His Word suffered in His spirit, His morale, His physique! Also the presence of His Mother, even if it was what My heart most wished, as it needed that comfort in the infinite solitude that surrounded it, infinite solitude coming from God and from men, was a torture.
She was to be there, an angel of flesh, to prevent despair from assailing Me, as the spiritual angel had prevented it in Gethsemane, She was to be there to join Her Sorrow to Mine for your Redemption, She was to be there to receive the investiture of Mother of mankind. But to see Her die at each shudder of Mine was My greatest sorrow. Not even the betrayal, not even the knowledge that My Sacrifice would be useless for so many people, these two sorrows, which shortly before had seemed so great as to make Me sweat
blood, were comparable with this one.
But you have seen how great Mary was in that hour. Her torture did not prevent Her from being by far stronger than Judith. The latter killed. The former allowed Herself to be killed through Her Child. And She did not curse, She did not hate. She prayed, She loved, She obeyed. Always a Mother, to the extent of thinking, among Her tortures, that Her Jesus needed Her virginal veil on His innocent body, to defend His decency, She was able to be at the same time the Daughter of the Father of Heaven and obey His dreadful will in that hour. She did not curse, She did not rebel. Either against God, or against men. She forgave the latter. She said "Fiat" to the Former.
Also later you heard Her say: "Father, I love You and You have loved us!" She remembers and She proclaims that God has loved Her and She renews Her act of love for Him. In that hour! After the Father had pierced Her and deprived Her of Her reason for existing. She loves Him. She does not say: "I do not love You any more because You have struck Me". She loves Him. And She does not grieve over Her sorrow. But over what Her Son suffered. She does not shout because Her heart is broken, but because Mine is pierced. She asks the Father the reason for that, not for Her sorrow. She asks the reason of the Father in the name of their Son.
She is the Spouse of God. It is She who conceived through union with God. She knows that no human contact has generated Her Child, but only the Fire descended from Heaven to penetrate Her immaculate womb and lay there the divine Embryo, the Body of the Man-God, of the God-Man, of the Redeemer of the world. She knows, and both as Spouse and as Mother She asks the reason for that wound. The others were to be given. But why this one, when everything had been accomplished?
Poor Mother! There was a reason, which Your sorrow did not allow You to read on My wound. And it was that men should see the Heart of God. You have seen it, Mary. And you will never forget it.
But, see? Although Mary at that moment did not see the supernatural reasons for that wound, She immediately thinks that it did not hurt Me, and She blesses God for that. She does not mind that that wound hurts Her, poor Mother, so much. It did not hurt Me, and that is enough and serves Her to bless God Who sacrifices Her.
She only asks for a little comfort in order not to die. She is necessary for the dawning Church, of which a few hours previously She was created the Mother. The Church, like a new-born baby, needs the care and milk of a mother. Mary will give it to the Church supporting the Apostles, speaking to them of the Saviour, praying for it. But how would She be able to do so if She breathed Her last tonight? The Church, that only in a few days' time will be left without her Head, would be completely an orphan if also Mary died.
And the destiny of new-born orphans is always precarious.
God never disappoints a just prayer and He comforts His children who hope in Him. Mary proves that through the comfort of Veronica. She, the poor Mother, had the image of My dead Face impressed in Her eyes. She cannot resist that sight. That is not Her Jesus, aged, swollen, with eyes closed not looking at Her, with lips twisted that do not speak to Her or smile. But here is a face that is the face of Jesus alive. Sorrowful, wounded, but still alive. Here His eyes are looking at Her, his lips seem to be saying: "Mother!" Here His smile still greets Her.
Oh! Mary! Look for your Jesus in your sorrow. He will always come and will look at you, He will call you and will smile at you. We will share sorrow, but we shall be united!
John, little John, you have shared sorrow with Mary and with Jesus. Be like John, always. Also in that. I have already said to you: "You shall not be great because of contemplations and dictations. They are Mine. But because of your love. And the deepest love is in the sharing of sorrow". That gives you the possibility to know by insight the least desires of God and to turn them into reality despite all obstacles.
Look at the lively delicate sensitiveness of John's behaviour from the Thursday night to the Friday night. And further. But let us consider it during those hours.
A moment of dismay. An hour of dullness. But after he overcomes sleepiness through the excitement of the arrest, and the excitement through love, he comes, dragging Peter with him, so that the Master may have some comfort seeing the Head of the apostles and the Favourite apostle.
He then thinks of the Mother, to Whom some cruel person may shout that Her Son has already been captured. And he goes to Her. He does not know that Mary is already living the tortures of Her Son and that while the apostles were sleeping, She was awake and was praying, agonising with Her Son. He does not know. And He goes to Her and prepares Her for the news.
Then he goes to and fro from Caiaphas' house to the Praetorium, from Caiaphas' house to Herod's palace, and then again from Caiaphas' house to the Praetorium. And to do so that morning, elbowing his way through a crowd intoxicated with hatred, wearing garments that point him out as a Galilean, is not pleasant. But love supports him, and he does not think of himself, but of Jesus' and His Mother's sorrows. He could be stoned as a follower of the Nazarene. It does not matter. He defies everything. The others have run away, they are hiding, they are led by prudence and fear. He is led by love, and he remains and shows himself. He is pure. Love thrives in purity.
And if his pity and common sense of a man of the people persuade
him to keep Mary away from the crowds and from the Praetorium - he does not know that Mary shares all the tortures of Her Son, suffering them spiritually - when he decides that the time has come when Jesus needs His Mother, and that it is not right to keep the Mother any longer away from Her Son, he takes Her to Him, he supports Her, he defends Her.
What is that handful of loyal people: a man all alone, unarmed, young, with no authority, leading a few women, with respect to a furious crowd? Nothing. A little pile of leaves that the wind can scatter. A small boat on a stormy ocean that can sink it. It does not matter. Love is his strength and his sail. He is armed with it, and with it he protects the Woman and the women until the end.
John possessed the love of compassion as no other person, except My Mother, possessed it. He is the Head of those who love with such love. He is your master with regard to that. Follow him in the example he gives you of purity and love, and you will be great.
Go in peace, now. I bless you. »
610. The Holy Saturday.
30th March 1945.
It dawns with difficulty. And daybreak is strangely delayed, although there are no clouds in the sky. But the stars seem to have lost all their brightness. And the sun, when it appears, is as pale as the moon was during the night. Opaque… Have they perhaps wept as well, as they look so dull, like the eyes of good people who have wept and still weep over the death of the Lord?
As soon as John realises that the Gates are open, he goes out, turning a deaf ear to his mother's entreaties. The women barricade themselves in the house, even more frightened now that also the Apostle has gone away.
Mary, still in Her room, Her hands resting in Her lap, looks fixedly out of the window, which opens on a not very large garden, but quite spacious and full of roses in bloom along the high walls and the bizarre flower-beds. The tufts of lilies, instead, are still without the stalks of the future flowers: thick and beautiful, but with nothing but leaves. She looks and looks, but I think that She does not see anything, except what there is in Her poor tired brain: the agony of Her Son.
The women go backwards and forwards. They approach Her, they caress Her, they beg Her to take some refreshment, and each time, as they come, there is a wave of a heavy, compound, stunning perfume.
And each time Mary thrills. But nothing else. She does not speak. She does not make a gesture. Nothing. She is exhausted. She is waiting. It is only a wait. She is the One Who awaits.
There is a knock at the door… The women rush to open. Mary turns round on Her seat, without standing up, and stares at the halfopen door.
The Magdalene goes in. « Manaen is here… He would like to be useful in some way. »
« Manaen… Let him come in. He was always good. But I did not think that it was he… »
« Who did You think, Mother!… »
« Later… later. Let him come in. »
Manaen goes in. He is not as pompous as usual. He is wearing a very common tunic, of a brown shade which is almost black, and • similar mantle. No jewels and no sword. Nothing. He looks like • well-to-do person, but of the common people. He stoops to greet, first with his hands crossed on his chest, and then he kneels down as if he were in front of an altar.
« Stand up. And forgive Me if I do not reply to your bow. I cannot… »
« You must not. I would not allow that. You know who I am. So I beg You to consider me Your servant. Do You need me? I see that there is no man here. I heard from Nicodemus that they have all run away. There was nothing to be done. That is true. But at least we should have given Him the comfort of seeing us. I… I greeted Him at the Sixtus. And then I was no longer able, because… But it is useless to mention it. That also was wanted by Satan. Now I am free and I have come to put myself at Your service. Give me Your orders, Woman. »
« I should like to know and let Lazarus know… His sisters are worried, and also my sister-in-law and the other Mary. We should like to know whether Lazarus, James, Judas, and the other James are safe. »
« Judas? The Iscariot! But he betrayed Him! »
« Judas, the son of the brother of My spouse. »
« Ah! I will go » and he stands Up. But in doing so he makes a gesture of pain.
« Are you wounded? »
« H'm… yes. Nothing serious. An arm is aching a little. »
« Because of us, perhaps? Is that why you were not up there? »
« Yes. That is why. And that is the only thing I regret. Not the wound. The remainder of Pharisaim, of Hebraism, of Satanism that was in me, because the cult of Israel has become Satanism, has all come out with that blood. I am like a baby, that after the excision of the sacred umbilical cord, has no further contact with his mother's blood, and the few drops still remaining in the excised cord do not flow into him, obstructed as they are by the linen string. But they fall… by now useless. The new-born baby lives with his own heart and his own blood. So do I. Till now I was not yet completely
formed. Now I have come to the end, and I come, and I was born to the Light. I was born yesterday. My Mother is Jesus of Nazareth. And He gave birth to me when He uttered His last cry. I know… Because I ran to Nicodemus' house last night. I should only like to see Him. Oh! when you go to the Sepulchre, let me know. I will come… I do not know His Face as the Redeemer! »
« It is looking at you, Manaen. Turn round. »
The man, who had gone in with his head so lowered and then had had eyes only for Mary, turns round almost frightened and sees the veronica. He throws himself on the floor, worshipping… And he weeps.
He then stands up. He bows to Mary and says: « I am going. »
« But it is the Sabbath. You know. They already accuse us of infringing the Law through His instigation. »
« We are on an equal footing, because they infringe the law of Love. The first and greatest. He said so. May the Lord console You. » He goes out.
Hours go by. How slow they are for those who are waiting…
Mary stands up and, leaning on pieces of furniture, She goes to the door. She tries to walk across the large entrance hall. But when She has nothing to lean on, She staggers as if She were intoxicated.
Martha, who sees Her from the yard, which is beyond the door open at the end of the hall, rushes towards Her. « Where do You want to go? »
« In there. You promised Me. »
« Wait until John comes. »
« Enough of waiting. You can see that I am calm. Since you have had the room locked from inside, go and have it opened. I will wait here. »
Susanna, as all the women have gathered there, goes away to call the master of the house with the keys. Mary in the meantime leans on the little door, as if She wished to open it with the power of Her will. The man arrives. Frightened and downcast, he opens the door and withdraws. And Mary, supported by the arms of Martha and Mary of Alphaeus, goes into the Supper room.
Everything is still as it was at the end of the Supper. The course of events and the instructions given by Jesus have prevented tampering. Only the seats have been put back in their places. And Mary, Who has not been in the Supper room, goes straight to the place where Her Jesus was sitting. She seems to be guided by a hand. And She looks like a sleep-walker, so stiff is She in Her effort to walk… She proceeds. She walks round the couch, She insinuates Herself between it and the table… She remains standing for a moment and then She collapses across the table in a fresh outburst of tears. She then calms down. She kneels down and prays with Her head resting on the edge of the table. She caresses the table-cloth, the seat,
the dishes, the edge of the large tray on which the lamb was, the large knife used to carve it, the amphora placed before that seat. She does not know that She is touching what also the Iscariot has touched. She then remains stupefied, with Her head resting on Her arms crossed on the table.
All the women are silent, with the exception of Her sister-in-law who says: « Come, Mary. We are afraid of the Jews. Would You like them to come in here? »
« No. This is a holy place. Let us go. Help Me… You have done the right thing in telling Me. I would also like a chest, a beautiful large one with a lock, to close all My treasures in it. »
« I will have it brought to You from our mansion tomorrow. It is the nicest one in the house. It is strong and safe. I give it to You with joy » says the Magdalene promising it.
They go out. Mary is really exhausted. She staggers in climbing the few steps. And if Her grief is less dramatic, it is because it no longer has the strength of being so. But in its quietness it is even more tragical.
They go into the room in which they were previously, and before going back to Her seat, Mary caresses the Holy Face of the veronica, as if it were a face of flesh.
There is another knock at the door. The women hasten to go out and close the door.
In Her tired voice Mary says: « If it is the disciples, and in particular Simon Peter and Judas, let them come to Me at once. »
But it is Isaac, the shepherd. He goes in weeping after some minutes and he prostrates himself at once before the veronica and then before the Mother, and he does not know what to say. It is Mary Who says: « Thank you. He saw you and I saw you. I know. He looked at you as long as He could. »
Isaac weeps louder. He can speak only when he has finished weeping. « We did not want to go away. But Jonathan begged us. The Jews were threatening the women… and later we were no longer able to come. It was… it was all over… Where should we have gone then? We scattered through the countryside and at dead of night we gathered together half way between Jerusalem and Bethlehem. We thought we would turn His Death away by going towards His Grotto… But then we felt that it was not right to go there… It was selfishness, and we came back towards the City… And we found ourselves, without knowing how, at Bethany… »
« My sons! »
« Lazarus! »
« James! »
« They are all there. Lazarus' fields at dawn were strewn with people who were wandering and weeping… His useless friends and disciples!… I… went to Lazarus and I thought I was the first… Instead
your two sons were already there, woman, and yours, with Andrew, Bartholomew, Matthew. Simon Zealot had convinced them to go there. And Maximinus, who had gone out in the country early in the morning, had found more. And Lazarus has helped them all. And he is still doing so. He says that the Master had ordered him to do that. And also the Zealot says so. »
« But Simon and Joseph, my other sons, where are they? »
« I don't know, woman. We had been together until the earthquake. Then… I don't know anything else precisely. Amidst the darkness and lightning and the dead who had risen and the quaking ground and the whirlwind, I lost my head. I found myself in the Temple. And I still wonder how I got there, beyond the sacred limit. Consider that between me and the altar of scents there was only a cubit… Imagine! I was where only the priests on duty are allowed to stand!… And… and I saw the Holy of Holies!… Yes. Because the veil of the Holy is torn from top to bottom, as if the power of a giant had torn it… If they had seen me in there, they would have stoned me. But no one could see any more. I met nothing but ghosts of dead and ghosts of living people. Because we looked like ghosts in the light of thunderbolts, in the bright light of fires, and with terror on our faces… »
« Oh! my Simon! My Joseph! »
« And Simon Peter? And Judas of Kerioth? And Thomas and Philip? »
« I do not know, Mother… Lazarus sent me to see you, because they had told him that… they had killed you all. »
« Well, go at once to reassure him. I have already sent Manaen. But you had better go as well and tell him… tell him that He alone has been killed. And I with Him. And if you see any of the other disciples, take them there with you. But I want the Iscariot and Simon Peter here. »
« Mother… forgive us if we did not do more. »
« I forgive everything… Go. »
Isaac goes out. And Martha and Mary, Salome and Mary of Alphaeus overwhelm him with prayers, recommendations, orders. Susanna weeps silently, because nobody speaks to her of her husband. And that reminds Salome of hers. And she weeps as well.
There is silence again, until there is a further knocking at the door.
Since the town is quiet, the women are not so frightened. But when through the half open door they see Longinus' clean-shaven face appear, they all run away as if they had seen a dead body enveloped in its shroud or the Devil himself. The master of the house, who is idling about the hall curiously, is the first to run away.
The Magdalene, who was with Mary, rushes there. Longinus, with an involuntary mocking smile on his lips, has gone in, and has closed
the heavy main door himself. He is not wearing a uniform, but he has on a short grey tunic under a mantle which is also dark.
Mary Magdalene looks at him and he looks at her. Still leaning against the door, Longinus asks: « May I come in without contaminating anybody? And without terrifying anyone? This morning at dawn I saw Joseph, the citizen, and he mentioned the Mother's desire to me. I apologise for not thinking of it myself. Here is the lance. I had kept it as a souvenir of a… of the Saint of Saints. Oh! He is indeed! But it is right that the Mother should have it. With regard to the garments… it is more difficult. Do not tell Her… but perhaps they have already been sold for a few coins… It is the right of the soldiers. But I will try to find them… »
« Come. She is in there. »
« But I am a heathen! »
« It does not matter. I will go and tell Her, if you wish so. »
« Oh! no… I did not think I deserved that. »
Mary Magdalene goes to the Blessed Virgin. « Mother, Longinus is out there… He offers the lance to You. »
« Let him come in. »
The master of the house, who is at the entrance, grumbles: « But he is a heathen. »
« I am the Mother of everybody, man. As He is everybody's Redeemer. »
Longinus goes in and on the threshold he salutes in the Roman way, with his arm (he has taken off his mantle) and then he greets Her saying: « Ave, Domina. A Roman greets you: the Mother of mankind. The true Mother. I would have liked not to be there at… at… at that affair. But it was an order. But, if I serve to give what You wish, I forgive destiny for choosing me for that horrible thing. Here » and he gives Her the lance enveloped in a red cloth. Only the steel head, not the shaft.
Mary takes it and becomes even wanner. Her very lips disappear in the pallor. The lance seems to open Her veins. And Her lips tremble as She says: « May He lead you to Himself. Because of your kindness. »
« He was the only Just Man I ever met in the vast empire of Rome. I regret I only knew Him through the words of my companions. Now… it is late! »
« No, son. He has finished evangelizing. But His Gospel remains. In His Church. »
« Where is His Church? » Longinus is slightly ironical.
« It is here. Today it is struck and scattered. But tomorrow it will gather like a tree that tidies up its foliage after a storm. And, even if there were nobody else, I am here. And the Gospel of Jesus Christ, the Son of God and Mine, is all written in My heart. All I need do is to look at My heart in order to be able to repeat it to you. »
« I will come. A religion that has as its head such a hero can but be divine. Ave, Domina! »
And also Longinus goes away.
Mary kisses the lance where there is still the Blood of Her Son… And She does not want to remove that Blood. But She leaves it saying: « A ruby of God, on the cruel lance »…
The day goes by thus, amid clear spells and threats of storms.
John comes back only when the sun shining perpendicularly tells that it is midday. « Mother, I have not found anybody, except… Judas of Kerioth. »
« Where is he? »
« Oh! Mother! How horrible! He is hanging from an olive-tree, all swollen and black, as if he had been dead for weeks. Rotten. Horrible… Above him vultures, crows, I do not know what, are shrieking fighting atrociously… It was their brawling that called me in that direction. I was on the road of the Mount of Olives, and on a hillock I saw ugly black birds wheel round and round. I went… Why? I do not know. And I saw. How horrible!… »
« How horrible! You are right. But above Goodness there was Justice. In fact Goodness is absent, now… But Peter! But Peter!… John, I have the lance. But the garments… Longinus did not mention them. »
« Mother, I want to go to Gethsemane. He had no mantle on when He was captured. Perhaps it is still there. Then I will go to Bethany. »
« Go. Go for the mantle… The others are with Lazarus. So do not go to Lazarus. It is not necessary. Go and come back here. »
John runs away, without taking any refreshment. Mary also is without any. The women, standing, have eaten bread and olives, working all the time at their balms.
Then Johanna of Chuza comes with Jonathan. Her features are disfigured by tears. And as soon as she sees Mary, she says: « He saved me! He saved me and He is dead. Now I wish I had never been saved! »
It is Our Lady of Sorrows Who has to comfort this woman, who was cured but has remained morbidly sensitive. And She consoles and fortifies her saying: « You would not have known and loved Him, and now you would not be able to serve Him. How much there is to be done in future! And we will have to do it, because you can see… We have remained, and the men have run away. The true giver of life is always the woman. In Good. In Evil. We will generate the new Faith. We are full of it, as it was deposited in us by the Spouse God. And we will generate for the Earth. For the welfare of the world. Look how handsome He is! How He smiles and begs for this holy work of ours! Johanna, I love you, you know that. Do not weep any more. »
« But He is dead! Yes. There He still looks as if He were alive. But
He is no longer alive. What is the world without Him? »
« He will come back. Go. Pray. Wait. The more you believe, the sooner He will rise from the dead. That belief is My strength… And only God, Satan and I know how many assaults have been made upon this faith of Mine in His Resurrection. »
Johanna also goes away, weak and bent like a lily too saturated with water.
But once she has gone out, Mary relapses into Her torture. « I have to give strength to everybody. To everybody! And who gives it to Me? » And She weeps, caressing the Face of the image, because She is now sitting near the chest on which the veronica is spread.
Joseph and Nicodemus come. And they spare the women the trouble of going out to buy myrrh and aloe, because they have brought some little bags of them. But their strength yields before the Face impressed on the linen cloth and the ravaged face of the Mother. They sit in a comer after greeting Her and they become silent. They are grave, gloomy… Later they go away.
Mary has no more strength to speak. But the darker it gets, which occurs rather early because of a mass of sultry clouds, the more She is tortured. The shadows of the evening are also for Her, as for all those who suffer, a source of deeper grief.
The other women also become sadder. Particularly Salome, Mary of Alpaeus and Susanna. But at last they have some consolation as Zebedee, Susanna's husband, Simon and Joseph of Alphaeus arrive in a group. The first two remain in the hall, explaining that John found them as he was going through the Ophel suburb. The other two instead were found by Isaac while they were wandering through the countryside, undecided as to whether they should go back to town, or go to their brothers who they supposed were at Bethany.
Simon asks: « Where is Mary? I want to see Her » and preceded by his mother, he goes in and kisses his distressed relative.
« Are you alone? Why is Joseph not with you? Why have you parted? Are you still at variance with each other? You must not. See? The reason of the disagreement is dead! » And She points at the face of the veronica.
Simon looks at it and weeps. He says: « We have never parted again. And we will not part. Yes, the reason of the disagreement is dead. But not as You think. It is dead because Joseph, now, has understood… Joseph is out there… and he dare not come in… »
« Oh! no. I never frighten anybody. I am nothing but mercy. I would have forgiven also the Traitor. But it is no longer possible. He has killed himself. » And She stands up. She walks with a stoop and calls: « Joseph! Joseph! »
But Joseph, overwhelmed with weeping, does not reply.
She goes to the door, as She had done to speak to Judas, and leaning on the door-post, She stretches the other hand out and lays it on the head of the eldest and most stubborn of Her nephews. She caresses him and says: « Let Me lean on a Joseph! Everything was peace and serenity as long as I had that name as king in My house. Then My holy man died… And all the human welfare of poor Mary died as well. The supernatural welfare of My God and Son has remained… Now I am the Forlorn wretch… But if I can be embraced in the arms of a Joseph I love, and you know whether I love you, I shall be less forlorn. I shall seem to have gone back in time. And that I can say: "Jesus is absent. But He is not dead. He is at Cana, at Nain, working, but He will soon be back… " Come, Joseph. Let us go in together where He is waiting to smile at you. He left His smile to us to tell us that He bears us no ill-will. »
Joseph goes in, held by the hand by Her, and as soon as he sees Her sat down, he kneels in front of Her, with his head on Her lap and sobbing says: « Forgive me! Forgive me! »
« It is not Me, it is Him you must ask. »
« He cannot forgive me. On Calvary I tried to attract His attention. He looked at everybody, but not at me… He is right… I have known and loved Him, as a Master, too late. Now, it is all over. »
« It begins now. You will go to Nazareth and say: "I believe". Your faith will have an infinite value. You will love Him with the perfection of future apostles, who will have the merit of loving Jesus known only through the spirit. Will you do that? »
« Yes! I will! To make amends. But I should like to hear a word from Him. And I shall never hear it again… »
« On the third day He will rise and He will speak to those whom He loves. The whole world is awaiting His Voice. »
« You are blessed, since You can believe… »
« Joseph! Joseph! My spouse was your uncle. And he believed something that is much more difficult to believe than this. He did believe that poor Mary of Nazareth was the Spouse and Mother of God. Why can you, the nephew of that Just man after whom you are named, not believe that a God can say to Death: "Enough!" and to Life: "Come back!"? »
« I do not deserve that faith, because I have been bad. I was unfair to Him. But You… You are the Mother. Bless me. Forgive me… Give me peace… »
« Yes… Peace… Forgiveness… Oh! God! Once I said: "How difficult it is to be the 'redeemers' ". Now I say: "How difficult it is to be the Mother of the Redeemer!". Have mercy, My God! Mercy!… Go, Joseph. Your mother has suffered so much during these hours. Console her… I am staying here… With what I have of My Child… And My solitary tears will obtain Faith for you. Goodbye, My dear nephew. Tell everybody that I want to be silent… to think… to pray… I am… I am a poor woman hanging from a thread over an abyss… The thread is My Faith… And your lack of faith, because nobody is capable of believing totally and holily, your lack of faith knocks continuously against My thread… And you are not aware of what exhaustion you induce in Me… You do not know that you are helping Satan to torture Me. Go… »
And Mary remains alone… She kneels before the veronica. She kisses the forehead, the eyes, the lips of Her Son and says: « So! So! To have strength… I must believe. I must believe. On behalf of everybody. »
Night has fallen. A starless, dark, sultry night. Mary remains in the shadow with Her sorrow.
The day of the Sabbath is over.
611. The Night of Holy Saturday.
31st March 1945.
Mary of Alphaeus goes in cautiously and listens. Perhaps she thinks that the Blessed Virgin has fallen asleep. She approaches Her and bends over Her. And she sees Her on Her knees, with Her face on the floor against the veronica. She whispers: « Oh! poor wretch! She has stayed like that!)d » She must think that She has fallen asleep like that or She has fainted.
But Mary, ending Her prayer, says: « No, I was praying. »
« On Your knees! In the dark! In the cold! With the window open! See? You are frozen. »
« But I feel so much better, Mary. While I was praying - and only the Eternal knows how exhausted I was after giving strength to so many wavering faiths and enlightening so many minds that not even His death had illuminated - I seemed to smell an angelical scent, a heavenly freshness, a caress of a wing… Only for a moment… Not longer. A drop of pacifying sweetness seemed to be instilled into the sea of myrrh that has been submerging Me furiously for three days now. The closed vault of Heaven seemed to open a little and a beam of bright love seemed to descend upon the Abandoned Mother. And I seemed to hear an incorporeal whisper, coming from an infinite distance, say: "It is really all over". My prayer, so far desolate, has become more peaceful. It became tinged with the bright peace - oh! just a nuance! - with the bright peace that I used to experience in My contacts with God during My prayers… 'My prayers!… Mary, did you love your Alphaeus very much, when you were his virgin bride? »
« Oh! Mary!… I rejoiced at dawn saying: "Another night has gone by. One less to wait". I rejoiced at sunset saying: "Another day is over. Nearer is my entrance into his house". And as the sun set, I used to sing like a skylark thinking: "He will soon be here". And when I saw him come, looking as handsome as my Judas - that is why Judas is my favourite - but with the eyes of a deer in love like my James, oh! then I no longer knew where I was! And when he greeted me saying: "My sweet bride!" and I was able to say to him: "My Lord", then I… I think that, if at that moment I had been crushed by a heavy cart or struck by an arrow, I would have felt no pain. And later!… When I became his wife… Ah!… » Mary is lost in the ecstasy of recollections. She then asks: « But why that question? »
« To explain to you what My prayers were for Me. Multiply Your feelings by one hundred, raise them to thousands powers, and you will understand what prayer and the wait for the hour of prayer have always been for Me… Of course, I think that, even if I did not pray in the peace of the grotto or of My room, but I was intent on the work of a woman, My soul prayed incessantly… But when I was able to say: "Well, the hour to collect My thoughts in God is coming", My heart would burn throbbing fast. And when I got lost in Him… then… No… I cannot explain this to you. When you are in the light of God you will understand… All that had been lost for three days… And it was even more heart-rending than not having My Son any more… And Satan worked on these two wounds, laid one on top of the other, the death of My Son and the abandonment by God, creating a third wound: the terror of the lack of faith. Mary, I am fond of you and you are relative of Mine. Later, you will tell your sons, the apostles, so that they may persevere in their apostolate and triumph over Satan. I am sure that, if I had accepted the doubt, if I had yielded to Satan's temptation and I had said: "It is not possible for Him to rise from the dead" denying God - because to say that was the same as denying God with His Truth and Power - such a great Redemption would have come to nothing. I, the new Eve, would have bitten once again at the forbidden fruit of pride and of spiritual sense, and I would have destroyed the work of My Redeemer. The apostles will be continuously tempted thus: by the world, by the flesh, by power, by Satan. Let them be firm against all tortures, and the corporal ones will be the lightest, so that they may not destroy what Jesus has done. »
« You, Mary, should tell my sons… What do You expect Your poor sister-in-law to say?! Oh! however! If they had come! That they should run away at first, well!… But later! »
« You know that Lazarus and Simon were ordered to take them to Bethany. Jesus knows everything… »
« Yes… But… Oh! when I see them, I will reproach them severely. They behaved cowardly. That everybody else should behave so is understandable, but not them, my sons! I will never forgive them… »
« Forgive them, forgive them… It was a moment of dismay… They did not believe that He could be captured. He had said so… »
« That is why I will not forgive them. They knew. So they were already prepared. When one knows something, and believes the person who tells it, nothing surprises any more! »
« Mary, also to all of you He said: "I will rise". And yet… If I could lay your breasts and heads open, on your hearts and on your brains I would see written: "It is not possible". »
« But, at least… Yes… It is difficult to believe… But we remained on Calvary. »
« Through the gratuitous grace of God. Otherwise we would have run away as well. Longinus, did you hear him? He said: "horrible thing". And he is a warrior. We, women, all alone with a boy, we resisted through God's direct help. So do not boast about it. It is no merit of ours. »
« And why was it not given to them? »
« Because they will be the priests of tomorrow. So they must know. They must know, having experienced it themselves, how easy it is for a follower of a Creed to lapse into abjuration. Jesus does not want priests like those who are so little so, that they have been His most obstinate enemies… »
« You speak of Jesus as if He had already come back. »
« See? You also admit that you do not believe. So how can you reproach your sons? »
Mary of Alphaeus does not know what to say in reply. She remains with her head lowered and mechanically moves some objects. She finds the little lamp and goes out with it and comes back in after lighting it, and she puts it in its usual place.
Mary is sitting once again near the stretched out veronica. The veronica, in the yellow flickering little flame of the oil lamp acquires a particular liveliness, and the lips and eyes seem to move.
« Are You not taking anything? » asks Mary's sister-in-law, who is somewhat mortified.
« A little water. I am thirsty. »
Mary goes out and comes back… with some milk.
« Do not insist. I cannot. Some water, yes. There is no more water in Me. I think I have no more blood either. But… »
There is a knock at the door. Mary of Alphaeus goes out. People can be heard talking in low voices in the hall, then John looks into the room.
« John. Have you come back? Still nothing? »
« Yes. Simon Peter… and Jesus' mantle… together… At Gethsemane. The mantle… » John falls on his knees and says: « Here it is… But it is all torn and covered with blood. The marks of the hands are Jesus'. Only He had them so long and thin. But it has been torn by teeth, it is very clear that this is the mouth of a man. I think it must have been… it must have been Judas Iscariot, because near the spot where Simon Peter found the mantle, there was a piece of Judas' yellow tunic. He went back there… later… before committing suicide. Look, Mother. »
Mary has done nothing but caress and kiss the heavy red mantle of Her Son, but, pressed by John, She opens it and sees the marks of blood, dark against the red of the Blood, and the tears of the teeth. She trembles and whispers: « How much blood! » She does not seem to see anything but that.
« Mother… the ground is red with it. Simon, who ran up there in the early morning hours, says that there was still fresh blood on the leaves of the grass… Jesus… I do not know… He did not seem to me to be wounded… Where did so much blood come from? »
« From His Body. In the bitter anguish… Oh! Jesus total Victim! Oh! My Jesus! » Mary weeps so distressingly, with an exhausted lament, that the women appear at the door and look in and then they go away. « This, this while everybody was abandoning You… What were you doing, while He was suffering His first agony? »
« We were sleeping, Mother… » John weeps.
« Was Simon there? Tell Me. »
« I had gone to look for the mantle. I had thought of asking Jonah and Mark… But they have run away. The house is closed and everything has been abandoned. So I went down to the walls, to go along all the road we had gone on Thursday… I was so tired that evening, and so grieved, that now I could not remember where Jesus had taken off His mantle. It seemed to me that He had it, then that He did not have it… On the spot where He was arrested there was nothing… Where we three were, nothing… I went along the path taken by the Master… And I thought that also Simon Peter was dead, because I saw him there, all crouched against a rock. I shouted. He raised his head… and I thought he had gone mad, so changed was he. He uttered a cry and tried to run away. But he staggered, blinded by his weeping, and I got hold of him. He said to me: "Leave me. I am a demon. I denied Him. As He said… and the cock crowed and He looked at me. I ran away… I ran here and there through the country, and then I found myself here. And, see? Jehovah made me find His Blood here to accuse me. Blood everywhere. Blood everywhere! On the rock, on the ground, on the grass. I had it shed. Like you, like everybody. But I denied that Blood". He seemed delirious. I tried to calm him and take him away. But he did not want. He said: "Here. Here. To guard this Blood and His mantle. And I want to wash it with my tears. When there is no more blood on the cloth, perhaps I will go back among the living, beating my breast and saying: 'I have denied the Lord!' ". I told him that You wanted him. That You had sent me looking for him. But he would not believe me. Then I told him that You wanted also Judas, to forgive him, and that You were suffering as You were no longer able to do so, because of his suicide. Then he wept more calmly. He wanted to know everything. And he told me that there was still fresh Blood on the grass and that the mantle had been maltreated by Judas, of whose tunic he had found a piece. I let him talk and talk, and then I said: "Come to the Mother". Oh! how much I had to insist to convince him! And when I thought that I had succeeded in convincing him and I got up to come, he did not want to come any more. He came only when it was getting dark. But when he arrived beyond the gate, he hid once again in a desert vegetable garden saying: "I don't want people to see me. I bear written on my forehead the word: Denier of God". Now that it is completely dark, I have succeeded in dragging him here. »
« Where is he? »
« Behind that door. »
« Let him come in. »
« Mother… »
« John… »
« Do not reproach him. He is repentant. »
« Do you still know Me so little? Let him come in. »
John goes out. He comes back. Alone. He says: « He dare not. Try to call him Yourself. »
And Mary calls him kindly: « Simon of Jonah, come. » Nothing. « Simon Peter, come. » Nothing. « Peter of Jesus and Mary, come. » A sharp burst of weeping. But he does not go in. Mary stands up. She leaves the mantle on the table and goes to the door.
Peter is crouched outside. Like a dog with no master. He cries so loud and all curled up, that he cannot hear the noise of the door that opens squeaking or the shuffling of Mary's sandals. He realises that She is there when She bends so low as to take his hand, pressed against his eyes, and She compels him to stand up. She goes back into the room dragging him like a little boy. She closes the door and locks it, and bent with sorrow, as he is with shame, She goes back to Her seat.
Peter kneels at Her feet and weeps without restraint. Mary caresses his grey hair, wet with the perspiration of sorrow. Nothing but such caress, until he calms down.
Then, when at last Peter says: « You cannot forgive me. So do not caress me. Because I have denied Him », Mary says:
« Peter, you have denied Him. That is true. You had the courage of denying Him in public. The cowardly courage of doing that. The others… Everybody, except the shepherds, Manaen, Nicodemus and Joseph and John, has only been cowardly. They have all denied Him: the men and women of Israel, except a few women… I will not mention the nephews and Alphaeus of Sarah. They were relatives and friends. But the others!… And they did not even have the satanic courage of lying to save themselves, or the spiritual courage of repenting weeping, or the more elevated one of acknowledging their error in public.
Your are a poor man. Or rather, you were. As long as you relied on yourself. Now you are a man. Tomorrow you will be a saint. But even if you were not what you are, I would have forgiven You the same. I would have forgiven also Judas, to save his soul. Because the value of a soul, also of one only, deserves every effort to overcome disgust and resentment, to the extent of being crushed thereby. Bear that in mind, Peter. I will repeat it to you: "The value of a soul is such that, at the cost of dying through the effort of suffering to have it close to us, one must hold it so, in one's arms, as I am holding your grey-haired head, if one realises that, by holding it so, it can be saved". So… Like a mother who, after the father's punishment, presses the head of her guilty son to her heart, and more with the words of her distressed heart that beats with love and sorrow, than with the father's blows, reforms and achieves.
Peter of My Son, poor Peter who have been, like everybody, in the hands of Satan in this hour of darkness, and you were not aware of it, and you think that you had done everything by yourself, come, do come here, on the heart of the Mother of My Son's children. Here Satan can no longer harm you. Here storms abate, and while waiting for the sun, My Jesus, Who will rise to say to you: "Peace to you, My Peter", the morning star rises, pure, beautiful, and making everything it kisses pure and beautiful, as happens on the clear waters of our sea in the fresh spring mornings. That is why I have wished so much to have you. At the foot of the Cross, I was tortured because of Him and of you and - how come you did not perceive it? - and I called your spirits so loud that I think they really came to Me. And closed in My heart, or rather, laid on My heart, like the loaves of the offering, I held them under the bath of His Blood and His tears. I was able to do so, because, in John, He made Me the Mother of all His progeny… How much I longed for you!… That morning, in that afternoon, at night and the following day… Why, poor Peter, wounded and trampled on by the Demon, did you keep a mother waiting so long? Do you not know that it is the task of mothers to tidy up, cure, forgive and lead their children? I will lead you to Him.
Mould you like to see Him? Would you like to see His smile, to be convinced that He still loves you? Would you? Oh! then move away from My poor lap of a woman, and lay your forehead on His crowned forehead, your lips on His wounded lips and kiss your Lord. »
« He is dead… I shall never be able. »
« Peter. Reply to Me. Which do you think is the last miracle of your Lord? »
« The Eucharist. No. That of the soldier cured there… there… Oh! do not remind me!… »
« A faithful, loving strong woman met Him on Calvary and wiped
His Face. And He, to tell us how much love can do, impressed the image of His Face on the linen cloth. Here it is, Peter. A woman achieved that, in an hour of hellish darkness and of divine wrath. Simply because she loved. Bear that in mind, Peter, for the hours in which the Demon will seem to you to be stronger than God. God was the prisoner of men, He was already overwhelmed, condemned, scourged, He was already dying… And yet, as God is always God even among the most cruel persecutions, and if the Idea is struck, God Who inspires it is untouchable, so God to deniers, to unbelievers, to the men of the foolish "whys", of the guilty "it cannot be ", of the sacrilegious "what I do not understand is not true ", replies, without any words, with this cloth. Look at it. One day, you told Me, you said to Andrew: "The Messiah showed Himself to you? It cannot be true", and then your human reason had to bend before the power of the spirit, that saw the Messiah where reason did not see Him. On another occasion, on the stormy sea, you asked: "Shall I come, Master?" and then, when you were half way, on the agitated water, you became doubtful saying: "Water cannot hold me" and, with your doubt as ballast, you were almost drowned. Only when the spirit that believed prevailed against human reason, you were able to find the help of God. On another occasion you said: "If Lazarus has been dead four days, why have we come? To die in vain?". Because with your human reason you could not suppose any other solution. And your reason was disproved by the spirit, that by pointing out to you, through the man raised from the dead, the glory of Him Who had raised him, showed you that you had not gone there in vain. Another time, many other times, upon hearing your Lord speak of death, and a cruel death, you said: "That will never happen to You!" And you can see how your reason has been given the lie. I now wait to hear the word of your spirit in this last case… »
« Forgive me. »
« No. Another word. »
« I believe. »
« Another one. »
« I don't know… »
« I love. Peter, love. You will be forgiven. You will believe. You will be strong. You will be the Priest, not the Pharisee who oppresses and has nothing but formalism and lack of active faith. Look at Him. Dare to look at Him. Everybody has looked at Him and venerated Him. Even Longinus… And would you not be able? And yet you were able to deny Him! If you do not recognise Him now, through the fire of My motherly loving sorrow that joins you and reconciles you, you will never be able again. He rises from the dead. How will you be able to look at Him in His new splendour, if you do not know His face in the passage from the Master you know to the Triumpher Whom you do not know? Because sorrow, all the Sorrow of ages and of the world, has worked on Him with chisel and mallet in the hours from Thursday evening to the ninth hour on Friday. And they have changed His Face. Previously He was only the Master and Friend. Now He is the Judge and King. He has ascended on His throne to judge. And He has put on His crown. He will remain so. The only difference is that after His glorious Resurrection, He will no longer be the Man Judge and King, but the God Judge and King. Look at Him. Look at Him while Humanity and Sorrow veil Him, in order to be able to look at Him when He triumphs in His Divinity. »
Peter at last raises his head from Mary's lap and looks at Her, with his eyes red with weeping, in the face of an old child, who is desolate and surprised at the evil he has done and at all the good he finds.
Mary compels him to look at his Lord. Then while Peter, as if he were before a living face, says moaning: « Forgive me, forgive me! I do not know how it happened. What happened. I was not myself. It was something that made me be not myself. But I love You, Jesus! I love You, my Master! Come back! Come back! Do not go away like that, without telling me that You have understood me! », Mary repeats the gesture already made in the sepulchral room. Standing, Her arms outstretched, She looks like the priestess at the moment of the offerings. And as there She offered the immaculate Host, here She offers the repentant sinner. She is indeed the Mother of saints and sinners!
Then She makes Peter stand up and continues to console him. And She says to him: « I am now happier. I know that you are here. Go now where the women and John are. You all need rest and food. Go. And be good… » as if he were a boy.
And while in the house, which is calmer this second night after His death and is inclined to go back to the human customs of sleep and food, and has the tired resigned appearance of dwellings where the survivors recover slowly from the blow of death, Mary alone wants to stay up, motionless in Her place, awaiting, in prayer. Always. Always. Always. For the living and for the dead. For the just and the guilty. For the return. The return. The return of Her Son.
Her sister-in-law wanted to stay with Her. But now she is sound asleep, sitting in a corner, with her head leaning against the wall. Martha and Mary go in twice, but then, sleepy as they are, they withdraw into a nearby room, and after a few words, they fall asleep as well… And farther away, in a room as small as a plaything, Salome and Susanna are sleeping, while, on two mats laid on the floor, Peter and John are sleeping noisily. The former still sobbing mechanically at intervals in his snoring, the latter with the smile
of a child who is dreaming of a happy vision.
Life resumes its activity and the flesh its rights… Only the Morning Star shines wakefully, with Her love watching near the image of Her Son.
And the night of Holy Saturday passes by thus. Until the crow of a cock, at the first light of daybreak, makes Peter jump to his feet with a shout. And his frightened sorrowful cry awakes those who were sleeping.
The truce is over for them and sorrow begins all over again. As for Mary, it only increases the anxiety of Her wait.
THE GLORIFICATION
612. The Morning of the Resurrection.
1st April 1945.
The women resume working at the ointments, which, during the night, in the cool of the court-yard, have become a thick Pomade.
John and Peter think that they ought to tidy up the Supper-room, cleaning the tableware, but putting everything back, as if the Supper were just over.
« He told us » says John.
« He had also said: "Do not fall asleep"! He had said: "Do not be proud, Peter. Do you not know that the hour of the trial is about to come?" And… and He said: "You will deny Me… " » Peter weeps again, while with deep grief he says: « And I did deny Him! »
« Enough, Peter! Now you have collected yourself. Enough of this torture! »
« No, never enough. If I should become as old as the ancient patriarchs, if I should live the seven hundred or the nine hundred years of Adam and of his first grandchildren, I would never cease having this torture. »
« Do you not hope in His Mercy? »
« Yes, I do. If I did not believe in that, I should be like the Iscariot: a desperate man. But even if He forgives me from the bosom of His Father, where He has gone back, I will not forgive myself. I! I! I who said: "I do not know Him", because at that moment it was dangerous to know Him, because I was ashamed of being His disciple, because I was afraid of being tortured… He was going towards His death… and I thought of saving my life. And to save it, I rejected Him, like a woman in sin, who, after giving birth to a child, rejects the fruit of her womb, which is dangerous to keep, before her unaware husband comes back. I am worse than an adulteress… worse than… »
Mary Magdalene, attracted by their shouts, comes in. « Do not shout like that. Mary can hear you. She is so exhausted! She has no strength left, and everything hurts Her. Your useless unseemly shouts renew Her torture of what you have been… »
« See? See, John? A woman can order me to be quiet. And she is right. Because we, the males sacred to the Lord, have only been able to lie or to run away. The women have been brave. You, a little more than a woman, so young and pure you are, were able to remain. We, the strong ones, the males, have fled. Oh! how the world must despise me! Tell me, tell me, woman! You are right! Put your foot on my lips that lied. On the sole of your sandal there is perhaps a little of His Blood. And only that Blood, mixed with the mud of the road, can give the denier a little forgiveness, a little peace. I
must get accustomed to the scorn of the world! What am I? Tell me: what am I? »
« You are full of pride » replies calmly the Magdalene. « Sorrow? Also. But you must believe that out of ten parts of your sorrow, five, I do not want to offend you by saying six, five are of your sorrow of being one who can be despised. And I will really scorn you if you continue only to moan and get into a frenzy, just like a foolish woman! What is done is done. And no unseemly shouting can repair it or cancel it. It only serves to draw attention and beg for undeserved pity. Be manly in your repentance. Do not shout. Act. I… you know who I was… But, when I realised that I was more despicable than vomit, I did not fall into fits of convulsions. I acted. In public. Without being indulgent towards myself and without asking for indulgence. Did the world despise me? It was right. I had deserved it. The world said: "A new whim of the prostitute"? And it called blasphemy my recourse to Jesus? It was right. The world remembered my previous behaviour that justified such remarks. So? The world had to convince itself that the sinner Mary no longer existed. By means of facts, I convinced the world. Do the same and be quiet. »
« You are severe, Mary » objects John.
« More with myself than with other people. But I admit it. I do not have the light hand of the Mother. She is Love. I… oh! I! I lashed my feelings with the whip of my will. And I will do so even more. Do you think that I have forgiven myself for being lustful? No, I have not. But I only say so to myself. And I will always repeat it to myself. I shall die consumed with this secret regret of having been my own corrupter, with this inconsolable sorrow of having profaned myself and not having been able to give Him but a trampled on heart… See… I have worked more than all the others at the balms… And with greater courage than the others I will uncover Him… Oh! God! what will He be like now! (Mary of Magdala grows pale at the very thought of it). And I will cover Him with fresh balms, removing those which are certainly all tainted on His countless wounds… I will do so, because the other women will look like convolvuli after a downpour… But it grieves me to have to do it with these hands of mine accustomed to caressing lustfully, and to have to approach His Holiness with this stained body of mine… I should like… I should like to have the hand of the Virgin Mother to accomplish this last unction… »
Mary is now weeping silently, without sobbing. How different she is from the theatrical Mary always shown to us! She is weeping noiselessly, as she did on the day of her forgiveness in the house of the Pharisee.
« Are you saying that… the women will be afraid? » Peter asks her.
« Not afraid… But they will be upset seeing His Body, which is certainly already rotten… swollen… black. And then, and this is certain, they will be afraid of the guards. »
« Do you want me to come? With John? »
« Ha! Certainly not! We women are all going. Because, as we were all up there, so it is fair that we should all be round His death bed. You and John will remain here. She cannot remain alone!… »
« Is She not coming? »
« We are not letting Her come! »
« She is convinced that He will rise from the dead… What do you think? »
« I, after Mary, am the one who believes more. I have always believed that that could be. He said so. And He never lies… Never!… Oh! before I used to call Him Jesus, Master, Saviour, Lord… Now, now I feel that He is so great that I do not know, I dare not give Him a name any more… What shall I say to Him when I see Him?… »
« But do you really think that He will rise?… »
« Another one! Oh! By dint of telling you that I do believe and of hearing you say that you do not believe, I will end up by not believing any more myself! I have believed and I do believe. I have believed and a long time ago I prepared a garment for Him. And tomorrow, as tomorrow is the third day, I will bring it here, to have it ready… »
« But if you say that He will be black, swollen, filthy? »
« Filthy, never. Sin is filthy. But… of course! He will be black. So? Was Lazarus not already putrid? And yet he rose. And his body was healed. But, if I say so!… Be quiet, you misbelievers! My human reason says also to me: "He is dead and will not rise". But my spirit, "His" spirit, because I have received a new spirit from Him, shouts resounding like blares of silver trumpets: "He will rise! He will rise! He will rise!". Why do you hurl me like a little boat against the cliffs of your doubts? I believe! I believe, my Lord! Although torn by grief, Lazarus has obeyed the Master and has remained in Bethany… I, who know who Lazarus of Theophilus is, a strong man, not a fearful leveret, can appreciate the sacrifice he made by remaining in the shade and not near the Master. But he obeyed. And by such obedience he has been more heroical than if with weapons he had snatched Him from armed men. I have believed and I believe. And I am staying here. Waiting like Her. But let me go. It is daybreak. As soon as there is enough light, we will go to the Sepulchre… »
And the Magdalene goes away, her face flushed with weeping, but always brave.
She goes back into Mary's room.
« What was the matter with Peter? »
« A nervous fit. But he has got over it. »
« Do not be severe, Mary. He suffers.. »
« So do I. But You know that not even once have I asked a pitying caress of You. He has already been cured by You… On the contrary, I think that You alone, Mother, are in need of a balsam. My holy, beloved Mother! But take heart… Tomorrow is the third day. We shall lock ourselves in here, the two of us: His lovers. You, the holy Lover; I, the poor lover… But I love Him as much as I can, with my whole self. And we will wait for Him… The rest, those who do not believe, we will lock them in over there, with their doubts. And I will put many roses here… I will have the chest brought here today… I will go to the mansion house and I will instruct Levi. All these horrible things must disappear! Our Resurrected Lord must not see them… So many roses… And You will put on a new dress… He must not see You so. I will comb Your hair, I will wash Your poor face disfigured by tears. Eternal maid, I will act as Your mother… I shall have, at last, the joy of taking motherly care of a child more innocent than a new-born baby! Dear!)d » and with her emotional exuberance, the Magdalene presses to her breast the head of Mary Who is sitting, she kisses and caresses Her, she tidies the light locks of Her hair ruffled behind Her ears, with her linen dress she wipes the fresh tears that stream down Her cheeks again, again, always…
The women come in with lights and amphorae and large-mouthed vases.
Mary of Alphaeus is carrying a heavy mortar. « It is not possible to stay outside. There is a weak wind that blows out the lamps » she explains.
They place themselves on one side. They lay all their things on a long narrow table, then they give the final touch to their balms by mixing the already heavy pomade of essences in the mortar with a white powder, handfuls of which they take from a little sack. They mix working with all their energy and then they fill a large-mouthed vase. They place it on the floor. They repeat the same operation with another vase. Perfumes and tears fall on the resins.
Mary Magdalene says: « This is not the unction that I hoped I should be able to prepare for You. » Because it is the Magdalene who, being more skilled than the other women, has controlled and directed the composition of the perfume, which is so strong that they decide to open the door and leave the window ajar over the garden, which is just beginning to appear in the early light of dawn.
They all weep more loudly after the remark made by the Magdalene in a subdued voice.
They have finished. All the vases are full.
They go out with the empty amphorae, the mortar no longer useful, and many lamps. Two only are left in the little room and they tremble, they seem to be sobbing as well, with the flickering of their light…
The women come back again and they close the window, because it is a rather cold dawn. They put on their mantles and they take large sacks into which they put the vases of the balm.
Mary stands up and looks for Her mantle. But they all crowd round Her convincing Her not to come.
« You are not fit to stand, Mary. You have not had any food for two days. Only a little water. »
« Yes, Mother, We will do it quickly and well. And we shall soon be back. »
« Be not afraid. We will embalm Him like a king. Look what precious balm we have prepared! And how much of it!… »
« We will not neglect any part of the body or any wound and we will arrange Him properly with our hands. We are strong and we are mothers. We will place Him like a child in a cradle. And the others will only have to close the place. »
But Mary insists: « It is My duty » She says. « I have always taken care of Him. Only these last three years that He was in the world, I surrendered the care of Him to other people, when He was far away from Me. Now that the world has rejected and disowned Him, He is Mine again. And I am once again His servant. »
Peter, who had approached the door with John, without being seen by the women, runs away upon hearing these words. He runs to some secluded corner to bewail his sin. John remains near the door. But he does not say anything. He would like to go as well. But he makes the sacrifice of remaining with the Mother.
Mary Magdalene takes Mary back to Her seat. She kneels in front of Her, she embraces Her knees raising her sorrowful loving face towards Her, and she promises: « With His Spirit, He knows and sees everything. But with my kisses I will tell His Body Your love and Your wish. I know what is love. I know what spur, what hunger it is to love, what nostalgia of being with whoever is our love. And that applies also to any base love that looks like gold, but is filth. And when she who has sinned can understand what is the holy love for the living Mercy, Whom men did not know how to love, then she can understand better what is Your love, Mother. You know that I know how to love. And You know that He said so, that evening of my true birth, on the shores of our serene lake, that Mary knows how to love much. Now this exuberant love of mine, like water that overflows from a tilted basin, like a flowery rosery that streams down a wall, like a flame that finding timber spreads and grows, has poured onto Him, and from Him-Love has drawn fresh power… Oh! my power of loving was not able to take His place on the Cross!… But what I was not able to do for Him - to suffer, and bleed, and die in His place, amid the mockery of all the world, happy, happy, happy to suffer in His place, and I am certain that the thread of my poor life would have been burnt more by the triumphant
love than by the infamous scaffold, and from the ashes there would have sprung up the fresh snow-white flower of the new virgin life, unaware of everything that is not God - all that I was not able to do for Him, I can still do for You… Mother, Whom I love with all my heart. Rely on me. I, who in the house of Simon, the Pharisee, knew how to gently caress His holy feet, now, with my soul that opens more and more to Grace, with greater gentleness will be able to caress His holy limbs, to dress His wounds embalming them more with my love, with the balm taken from my heart wrung by love and sorrow, than with the ointment. And death will not spoil that body that has loved so much and is so much loved. Death will flee, because Love is stronger. Love is invincible. And I, Mother, with Your perfect love, with my total love, will embalm my King of Love. »
Mary kisses this impassioned woman who, at last, has been able to find so much passion, and She yields to her entreaties.
The women go out taking a lamp. One only is left in the room. The Magdalene is the last to go out, after a last kiss to the Mother Who remains.
The house is all dark and silent. The road is still dark and solitary.
John asks: « Do you really not want me? »
« No. You may be useful here. Goodbye. »
John goes back to Mary. « They did not want me… » he says in a low voice.
« Do not feel mortified. They are with Jesus. You with Me. John, let us pray a little together. Where is Peter? »
« I don't know. Somewhere in the house. But I have not seen him. He is… I thought that he was stronger… I am suffering, too, but he… »
« He has two sorrows. You have only one. Come. Let us pray also for him. » And Mary slowly says the « Our Father ».
Then She caresses John saying: « Go to Peter. Do not leave him all alone. He has been so much in darkness during these hours, that he cannot stand even the feeble light of the world. Be the apostle of your lost brother. Begin your preaching with him. On your road, and it will be a long one, you will always find people like him. Begin your work with your companion… »
« But what shall I say?… I don't know… Everything makes him weep… »
« Mention His precept of love to him. Tell him that he who fears only, does not yet know God sufficiently, because God is Love. And if he says to you: "I have sinned", reply to him that God has loved sinners so much that He sent His Only-Begotten Son for them. Tell him that we must reply with love to so much love. And love makes one trust in the very good Lord. That trust does not make us be afraid of His judgement, because through it we have recognised the divine Wisdom and Goodness, and we say: "I am a poor creature.
But He knows. And He gives me the Christ as guarantee of forgiveness and as a supporting pillar. My misery is overcome by my union with the Christ". It is in Jesus' name that everything is forgiven… Go, John. Tell him that. I am staying here, with My Jesus.. » and She caresses the veronica.
John goes out, closing the door behind him.
Mary kneels down, as She did the previous evening, face to face with the veil of the Veronica. And She prays and speaks to Her Son. While She is strong enough to give strength to other people, when She is alone She bends under Her overwhelming cross. And yet, now and again, like a flame no longer oppressed by the bushel, Her soul rises towards a hope that cannot die in Her. On the contrary it grows as hours pass. And She expresses Her hope also to the Father. Her hope and Her request.
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(You can put here the prayer of last year, the lament of this Passover dawn, dated 21st February 1944, leaving it exactly as it is, because no change is to be made to it).
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[21st February 1944]
« Jesus, Jesus! Are You not coming back yet? Your poor Mother can no longer put up with the idea that You are lying dead over there. You said it, but no one understood You. But I understood You! "Destroy the Temple of God and I will rebuild it in three days". This is the beginning of the third day. Oh! My Jesus! Do not wait till it ends to come back to life, to Your Mother, Who needs to see You alive in order not to die remembering that You are dead, Who needs to see You handsome, healthy, triumphant, in order not to die remembering You in that state in which I left You!
Oh! Father! Father! Give My Son back to Me! That I may see Him come back as a Man and not as a corpse, a King, not a condemned man. Later, I know, He will come back to You, in Heaven. But I shall have seen Him cured of so much evil, I shall have seen Him strong after so much weakness, I shall have seen Him triumphant after struggling so much, I shall have seen Him God after so much humanity suffered on behalf of men. And I shall feel happy even if I lose the possibility of being near Him. I shall know that He is with You, Holy Father, I shall know that He is for ever free from Sorrow. Now, instead, I cannot forget that He is in a sepulchre, that He is there, killed because of all the sorrow they have given Him, that He, My Son-God, is sharing the destiny of men in the dark of a sepulchre, He, Your Living Son.
Father, Father, listen to Your servant. Because of that "yes"… I have never asked anything of You for My obedience to Your will; it was Your Will, and Your Will was Mine; I did not have to exact anything for the sacrifice of My will to Yours, Holy Father. But
now, but now, for the sake of that "yes" that I said to the messenger Angel, o Father, listen to Me!
He is now free from tortures, because He accomplished everything with the agony of three hours after the tortures of the morning. But I have been for three days in this agony. You can see My heart and You hear its throbs. Our Jesus said that no feather falls off a bird without You seeing it, that no wild flower dies without its agony being consoled by You with Your sunshine and Your dew. Oh, Father, I am dying of this grief! Deal with Me as You do with the sparrow that You reclothe with a new feather, and with the flower that You warm and quench its thirst in Your pity. I am dying frozen by sorrow. I have no more blood in My veins. Once it became all milk to nourish Your Son and Mine; now it has all turned into tears because I have no Son any more. They have killed Him, they have killed Him, Father, and You know how!
I have no more blood! I have shed it all with Him on Thursday night, on the sorrowful Friday. I am as cold as one whose veins have been severed. The sun no longer shines for Me, because He is dead, My holy Sun, My blessed Sun, the Sun born of My womb for the joy of His Mother, for the salvation of the world. I have no more refreshment, because I no longer have Him, the sweetest fountain for His Mother, Who drank His Word, Who quenched Her thirst with His presence. I am like a flower in dry sand. I am dying, I am dying, holy Father.
And I am not afraid to die, because He also is dead. But what will these little ones do, the little herd of My Son, so weak, so frightened, so fickle, if there is no one to support it? I am nothing, Father. But, by the desires of My Son, I am like a formation of armed men. I defend, I will defend His Doctrine and His heritage as a she-wolf defends her wolf-cubs. I, a ewe-lamb, will become a she-wolf to defend what belongs to My Son, and consequently, what is Yours.
You have seen it, Father. Eight days ago this town stripped its olive-trees, stripped its houses, stripped its gardens, stripped its inhabitants and became hoarse shouting: "Hosanna to the Son of David; blessed He Who comes in the name of the Lord". And while He was passing walking on carpets of branches, of garments, of clothes, of flowers, the citizens pointed Him out to one another saying: "He is Jesus, the Prophet from Nazareth in Galilee. He is the King of Israel". And while those branches had not yet withered and their voices were still hoarse through so much singing hosannas, they changed their cries into accusations and curses and requests for death, and of the branches cut off for the triumph they made cudgels to strike Your Lamb, Whom they were taking to His death. If they have done so much while He was among them and spoke to them, and smiled at them, and looked at them with His eyes that melt hearts, and even stones tremble when looked at by them, and
He helped them and taught them, what will they do when He comes back to You?
His disciples, You have seen them. One betrayed Him, the others ran away. He was no sooner struck than they ran away like cowardly sheep, and they did not even stay around Him while He was dying. One only, the youngest, remained. Now comes the elder. But he already denied Him once. When Jesus is no longer here to watch him, will he persist in his Faith?
I am a nonentity, but a little of My Son is in Me, and My love supplies what I lack and annuls it. So I become something useful for the cause of Your Son, for His Church, that will never find peace and needs to strike deep roots in order not to be uprooted by winds. I am the one who will take care of it. Like a diligent gardener I will watch that it grows up strong and straight in its dawn. Then I shall not be worried about dying. But I cannot live if I remain any longer without Jesus.
Oh! Father, Who have abandoned Your Son for the welfare of men, and then You have comforted Him, because You have certainly received Him on Your bosom after His death, do not leave Me any longer in abandonment. I suffer it and offer it for the welfare of men. But console Me, now, Father. Father, mercy! Mercy, Son! Mercy, divine Spirit! Remember Your Virgin! »
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[1st April 1945]
Later, prostrated on the floor, Mary seems to be praying with Her attitude as well as with Her heart. She is really a poor crushed thing. She looks like that flower parched to death of which She has spoken.
She does not even notice the shaking of a short but strong earthquake that makes the master and mistress of the house shout and run away, while Peter and John, as white as death, drag themselves as far as the threshold of the room. But as they see Her absorbed in Her prayer, inattentive, unaware of what is not God, they withdraw closing the door, and frightened as they are, they go back into the Supper room.
613. The Resurrection.
1st April 1945.
I see again the joyful and powerful Resurrection of Christ.
In the kitchen garden all is silent and glittering with dew. Above it the sky is becoming a clearer and clearer sapphire shade, after leaving its dark-blue hue studded with stars, that through the whole night had watched over the world. Dawn is driving back, from east to west, these still dark zones, like a wave that during the high tide advances more and more, covering the dark beach and replacing the
grey-dark shade of the damp sand and of the reef with the blue sea water.
A few little stars do not want to die yet and peep more and more faintly through the wave of the white greenish light of dawn, a white shaded with grey, like the leaves of the drowsy olive-trees that form a crown on that not far away hillock. And then it is wrecked, submerged by the wave of dawn, like land overflowed by water. And there is a star less… And then also another one less… and another one, and another one. The sky loses its herd of stars and only over there, to the remote east, three, then two, then one remain to contemplate that daily wonder, which is the rising dawn.
And then, when a pink thread draws a line on the turquoise silk of the eastern sky, a breath of wind passes over leaves and herbs and says: « Wake up. The day has risen. » But it awakes only leaves and herbs, that shiver under their dewy diamonds and rustle gently while the falling drops resound like arpeggios. The birds have not awakened yet among the thick branches of a very tall cypress .hat seems to dominate like a lord in his kingdom, or in the thick entanglement of a laurel hedge that shelters from the north wind.
The guards, weary, cold, sleepy, in various postures are watching over the Sepulchre, the stone of which has been reinforced round its edge, as if it were a buttress, with a thick layer of lime, on the opaque white of which stand out the large rosettes of red wax of the Temple seal, impressed with others directly on the fresh lime.
The guards must have lit a little fire during the night, because there are ashes and half-burnt fire-brands on the ground, and they must have played and eaten, because scattered around there are remains of food and some small clean bones, which have certainly been used for some game, like our dominoes or our children's games of marbles, which are played on a coarse board traced on a path. Then they became tired and left things as they are now, and they tried to find more or less comfortable postures to sleep or to keep watch.
In the clear sky, where to the east there is now a completely rosy zone, which is spreading out more and more widely, but where, however, there are no sunbeams as yet, a very bright meteor appears, coming from unknown depths, and it descends like a sphere of fire of unsustainable splendour, followed by a glowing trail, which perhaps is nothing but the persistence of its brightness in our retinae. It descends at a very high speed towards the Earth, shedding such an intense phantasmagoric light, frightful in its beauty, that the rosy light of dawn vanishes, outshone by such white incandescence.
The guards, astonished, raise their heads, also because with the light there comes a mighty, harmonious, solemn rumble that fills the whole of Creation with its roar. It comes from heavenly depths.
It is the alleluia, the angelical glory, that follows the Spirit of the Christ, which is returning to His glorious Flesh.
The meteor clashes on the useless closure of the Sepulchre, tears it off, throws it on the ground, and it strikes with terror and noise the guards placed as jailors of the Master of the Universe, producing with its return to the Earth a new earthquake, as it had caused one when this Spirit of the Lord fled from the Earth. It enters the dark Sepulchre that becomes all bright with its indescribable light, and while it remains suspended in the still air, the Spirit is infused again into the Body motionless under the funereal bandages.
All this takes place not in a minute, but in the fraction of a minute, so fast have been the appearance, descent, penetration and the disappearance of the Light of God…
The « I want » of the divine Spirit to its cold Body is noiseless. It is uttered by the Essence to the immobile Matter. But no word is perceived by the human ear. The Flesh receives the order and obeys it with a deep sigh… Nothing else for some minutes.
Under the Sudarium and the Shroud, the glorious Body is recomposed in eternal beauty, it awakes from the sleep of death, it comes back from the « nothing » in which it was, it lives after being dead. The heart certainly awakes and gives its first throb, it propels the remaining frozen blood through the veins and at once creates the full measure of it in the empty arteries, in the immobile lungs, in the dark brain, and brings back warmth, health, strength, thought.
Another moment, and there is a sudden movement under the heavy Shroud. It is so sudden that, from the moment He certainly moves His folded arms to the moment He appears standing, imposing, splendid in His garment of immaterial matter, supernaturally handsome and majestic, with a gravity that changes and elevates Him, and yet leaves Him exactly Himself, the eye has hardly time to follow the development. And now it admires Him: so different from what the mind remembers, tidied up, without wounds or blood, only blazing with the light that gushes from the five wounds and issues from every pore of His skin.
When He takes His first step - and in the movement the rays emanating from His Hands and Feet halo Him with beams of light: from His Head haloed with a garland, made with the countless little wounds of the crown, but they no longer bleed but only shine, to the hem of His tunic, when, opening His arms, that were folded across His chest, He uncovers the zone of very bright luminosity that filters through His tunic inflaming it like a sun at the height of His Heart - then it is really the « Light » that has taken a body. Not the poor light of the Earth, not the poor light of the stars, not the poor light of the sun. But the Light of God: all the heavenly brightness that gathers in one Being and grants Him its inconceivable azure as eyes, its golden fire as hair, its angelic whiteness as
garment and complexion and all that exists, but cannot be described by human words, the supereminent ardour of the Most Holy Trinity, that outshines with its ardent power every fire in Paradise, absorbing Him in Itself to generate Him again at each moment of the eternal Time, Heart of Heaven that attracts and spreads His blood, the countless drops of His incorporeal blood: the blessed souls, the angels, everything there is the Paradise: the love of God, the love for God, all this is the Light that is, that forms the Risen Christ.
When He moves, coming towards the exit, and the eye can see beyond His brightness, two most beautiful brilliances, but similar to stars compared with the sun, appear to me, one on this side, the other on the other side of the threshold, prostrated in the adoration of their God, Who passes by enveloped in His light, beatifying with His smile, and He goes out, leaving the funereal grotto and going back to walk on the earth, that awakes out of joy and shines in its dews, in the hues of herbs and roseries, in the countless corollas of apple-trees, that open, by a wonder, to the early sun that kisses them, and to the eternal Sun Who proceeds under them.
The guards are there, shocked… The corrupt powers of man do not see God, whereas the pure powers of the universe - the flowers, herbs, birds - admire and venerate the Mighty One, Who passes by in a halo of His own Light and in an aureola of sunlight.
His smile, His eyes that rest on flowers, on dead branches, that look up at the clear sky, everything becomes more beautiful. And more soft and shaded than a silky rosery are the millions of petals forming a flowery foam on the head of the Conqueror. And brighter are the diamonds of the dew. And of a deeper blue is the sky reflecting His refulgent eyes, and more joyful is the sun that with gladness paints a little cloud blown by a light wind, that comes to kiss its King with scents stolen from gardens and with caresses of silky petals.
Jesus raises His Hand and blesses and then, while the birds sing more loudly and the wind carries its scents, He disappears from my sight, leaving me in a joy that cancels even the slightest remembrance of sadness and sufferings and hesitancy for tomorrow…
614. Jesus Appears to His Mother.
[21st February 1944]
Mary is prostrated with Her face on the floor. She looks like a poor wretch. She looks like that withered flower of which She has spoken.
The closed window is opened with a violent banging of the heavy shutters, and with the first ray of the sun, Jesus enters.
Mary, Who has been shaken by the noise and has raised Her head to see which wind has opened the shutters, sees Her radiant Son:
handsome, infinitely more handsome than He was before suffering, smiling, lively, brighter than the sun, dressed in a white garment that seems woven light, and Who is advancing towards Her.
She straightens Herself up on Her knees and crossing Her hands on Her breast, She says with a sob that is joy and grief: « Lord, My God ». And She remains thus, enraptured in contemplating Him, with Her face all washed by tears, but made serene, pacified by His smile and by the ecstasy.
But He does not want to see His Mother on Her knees, like a servant. And He calls Her, stretching out His hands, from the wounds of which emanate rays that make His glorious Flesh even brighter: « Mother! » But it is not the sorrowful word of the conversations and the farewells before His Passion, or the heart-rending lament of the meeting on Calvary and of the agony. It is a cry of triumph, of joy, of freedom, of rejoicing, of love, of gratitude. And He bends over His Mother, Who dare not touch Him, and He places His hands under Her bent elbows, and He lifts Her up, He presses Her to His Heart and kisses Her.
Oh! Mary realises then that it is not a vision, that it is Her Son Who has really risen, that it is Her Jesus, the Son Who still loves Her as a Son. And with a cry, She flings Her arms round His neck, and She embraces and kisses Him, laughing in Her weeping. She kisses His Forehead, where there are no longer any wounds, His Head no longer unkempt and bloody, His shining Eyes, His healed Cheeks, His Mouth no longer swollen. She then takes His Hands and kisses their backs and palms, their radiant wounds, and She suddenly bends down to His Feet and uncovers them from under His bright garment and kisses them. Then She stands up, looks at Him, but dare not.
But He smiles and understands. He uncovers His chest a little and says: « And this one, Mother, are You not kissing it, this one that grieved You so much and that You alone are worthy to kiss? Kiss My Heart, Mother. Your kiss will cancel the last remembrance of what is sorrowful and will give Me that joy, which My Joy of having risen from the dead still lacks. » And He takes the face of His Mother in His Hands and He lays Her lips on the lips of the wound of His Chest, from which streams of a very bright light are flowing.
Mary's face is haloed by that light, flooded as it is with its beams. She kisses and kisses, while Jesus caresses Her. She never tires kissing. She looks like a thirsty woman whose mouth is attached to a fountain and who drinks from it the life that was escaping her.
Jesus speaks now.
« It is all over, Mother. You no longer have to weep over Your Son The trial is over. Redemption has taken place.
Mother, thanks for conceiving Me, for bringing Me up, for helping Me in life and in death.
I heard Your prayers come to Me. They have been My strength in My grief, My companions in My journey on the Earth and beyond the Earth. They came with Me on the Cross and to Limbo. They were the incense that preceded the Pontiff, Who was going to call His servants and take them to the temple that does not die: to My Heaven. They have come with Me to Paradise, preceding, like an angelical voice, the procession of the redeemed led by the Redeemer, so that the angels should be ready to greet the Conqueror, Who was returning to His Kingdom. They have been seen and heard by the Father and by the Spirit, Who smiled at them, as if they were the most beautiful flower and the sweetest song born in Paradise. They have been recognised by the Patriarchs and by the new Saints, by the new, first, citizens of My Jerusalem, and I bring You their thanks, Mother, together with the kisses of their relatives, with their blessings and with that of Joseph, the spouse of Your soul.
The whole of Heaven sings its hosanna to You, Mother, Holy Mother! A hosanna that does not die, that is not a false one like the one given to Me a few days ago.
I will now go to the Father in My human appearance. Paradise must see the Conqueror in His appearance of Man, by means of which He defeated the Sin of Man. But I will come again. I must confirm in the Faith those who do not yet believe and are in need to believe to lead the others to believe, I must fortify the pusillanimous ones who will need so much strength to resist the world.
Then I will ascend to Heaven. But I will not leave You alone. Mother, can You see that veil? In My annihilation, I still exhaled the power of miracle on Your behalf, to give You that comfort. But for You I will work another miracle. You will have Me, in the Sacrament, as real as when You carried Me.
You will never be alone. But these past days You have been alone. But also that sorrow of Yours was required for My Redemption. Much is continuously to be added to Redemption, because much will be continuously created in the way of Sin. I will call all My servants to this redeeming participation. You are the one who by Yourself will do more than all the others together. But also this long abandonment was required.
Now no longer so. I am no longer separated from the Father. You will no longer be separated from Your Son. And, by having Your Son, You have our Trinity. A living Heaven, You will bring the Trinity to men on the Earth, and You will sanctify the Church, You, Queen of the Priesthood and Mother of the Christians.
Then I will come to get You. And no longer shall I be in You, but You will be in Me, in My Kingdom, to make Paradise more beautiful.
I am going now, Mother. I am going to make the other Mary happy. Then I will ascend to the Father. Thence I will come to those who do not believe. Mother, Your kiss as a blessing. And My Peace to You as a companion. Goodbye. »
And Jesus disappears in the sunshine that streams down from the early morning clear sky.