The Slow Way: A Poem for Good Friday
In a moment when his life was fading, when his suffering was at its height, I believe Jesus was responding to our suffering with his own suffering. Acknowledging our grief with his own.
Daughters of Jerusalem
by Micha Boyett
from Luke 23: 27-31
Blessed is the womb that never felt one tiny foot
press out and drag slow inside. The living lump
beneath skin, a curled child who begs to stretch.
Gravity presses even the unborn toward earth’s dust.
Blessed are the empty breasts, the woman
who never held the baby’s body against her own,
rocking in the late night darkness, eyes closed,
bodies alive, both clinging to the other for living milk.
Blessed are you, woman! The days are coming
when you will be called safe, you without grief
for the tender bodies or the world’s sharp corners.
Children crash and tear and never come home whole.
Blessed are you who grieve the teacher’s dying,
watch his moaning crawl along the broken road.
Blessed are you who weep for his blue-beaten body,
his wretched stumble under splintered wood.
Blessed woman, you who wail his torn flesh, its dangle
toward earth, you who hope he’ll summon angel
warriors, blast this barren hill with light, burn bright
this dried up death. Blessed are you who beg mercy.
Daughters of Jerusalem! It would be better if you’d never held
the living beneath your skin, known the weight you carried.
You point toward what is taken here: The Word that speaks
us into being is silenced. The celestial carrier of hope, emptied.
He speaks desperation. He dies his body. But he is pregnant
with mystery: he gathers the cosmic collection
of every hopeless sigh, every loss, every hatred formed against another,
every embittered soul, every unloved and unlover.
It enters him: the great hot chasm of sin. He opens his chest
wide to hold the oozing dark. Weep, you who cannot
undo the life you’ve made: the small hands, the legs
that wobbled and tipped toward earth. Grieve the children,
grieve the tree as it falls. Let the green wood
thump into the loose dust. Earth gives life green
then dries it brown. We take wood and form it
either to table or death tool. Who can say?
About the poem
This poem is based on a passage in Luke 23, and if you’ve ever participated in praying through the stations of the cross you may have spent some time meditating on the passage. I wrote this poem at a time when my kids were still small, when I was still breastfeeding and deep in the physicality of mothering. I’ve always been confused by this passage. Obviously, Jesus speaks to the women following him at a moment when he is undergoing great distress. Of course he’s not going to be optimistic. But I’ve wondered over the years what he meant with these words, which feel so harsh and painful.
In a moment when his life was fading, when his suffering was at its height, I believe Jesus was responding to our suffering with his own suffering. He was saying to those women weeping behind him: “This is terrible, and I see your terror too. I honor your grieving.”
And that last thing he says: “if we do these things when the tree is green, what will happen when it is dry?” It’s a mystery. But I liked ending the poem by pointing to the wood of the cross. What is actually happening on that cross? This creation of God—green wood with its life only just taken. And what will we make of it? Table or death tool? Today we grieve what happens when what should have been a place for connection and care is instead used for violence.
Today is a day to lean into the grief of this world. Good Friday exists to teach us how to hold pain and suffering, how to acknowledge it. Without the sorrow of this day, Easter loses its power.
A Slow Practice
So let’s start by letting the mystery sink into us. Let’s practice reading the words of the passage slowly together. The first time you read it, ask God to show you if anything stands out. What rises to the surface for you?
Luke 23:27-31
A large number of people followed him, including women who mourned and wailed for him. Jesus turned and said to them, “Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for me; weep for yourselves and for your children. For the time will come when you will say, ‘Blessed are the childless women, the wombs that never bore and the breasts that never nursed!’ Then they will say to the mountains, ‘Fall on us!’ and to the hills, ‘Cover us!’
For if people do these things when the tree is green, what will happen when it is dry?”
Let yourself sit with this for a minute, considering what stood out to you, what rose to the surface in your mind.
Now, read through it again, asking God to reveal one significant idea, word, phrase that you want to carry with you through the day.
Luke 23:27-31
A large number of people followed him, including women who mourned and wailed for him. Jesus turned and said to them, “Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for me; weep for yourselves and for your children. For the time will come when you will say, ‘Blessed are the childless women, the wombs that never bore and the breasts that never nursed!’ Then they will say to the mountains, ‘Fall on us!’ and to the hills, ‘Cover us!’
For if people do these things when the tree is green, what will happen when it is dry?”
Let yourself consider what word, phrase or idea God might be revealing to you. Acknowledge it in the presence of the Sprit.
Now read through one more time, asking for a take away. Some commitment, response, or image you hope to keep with you throughout the rest of this Good Friday.
Luke 23:27-31
A large number of people followed him, including women who mourned and wailed for him. Jesus turned and said to them, “Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for me; weep for yourselves and for your children. For the time will come when you will say, ‘Blessed are the childless women, the wombs that never bore and the breasts that never nursed!’ Then they will say to the mountains, ‘Fall on us!’ and to the hills, ‘Cover us!’
For if people do these things when the tree is green, what will happen when it is dry?”
After you offer this commitment, response, or image in the presence of God, read through the poem one more time:
Daughters of Jerusalem
by Micha Boyett
from Luke 23: 27-31
Blessed is the womb that never felt one tiny foot
press out and drag slow inside. The living lump
beneath skin, a curled child who begs to stretch.
Gravity presses even the unborn toward earth’s dust.
Blessed are the empty breasts, the woman
who never held the baby’s body against her own,
rocking in the late night darkness, eyes closed,
bodies alive, both clinging to the other for living milk.
Blessed are you, woman! The days are coming
when you will be called safe, you without grief
for the tender bodies or the world’s sharp corners.
Children crash and tear and never come home whole.
Blessed are you who grieve the teacher’s dying,
watch his moaning crawl along the broken road.
Blessed are you who weep for his blue-beaten body,
his wretched stumble under splintered wood.
Blessed woman, you who wail his torn flesh, its dangle
toward earth, you who hope he’ll summon angel
warriors, blast this barren hill with light, burn bright
this dried up death. Blessed are you who beg mercy.
Daughters of Jerusalem! It would be better if you’d never held
the living beneath your skin, known the weight you carried.
You point toward what is taken here: The Word that speaks
us into being is silenced. The celestial carrier of hope, emptied.
He speaks desperation. He dies his body. But he is pregnant
with mystery: he gathers the cosmic collection
of every hopeless sigh, every loss, every hatred formed against another,
every embittered soul, every unloved and unlover.
It enters him: the great hot chasm of sin. He opens his chest
wide to hold the oozing dark. Weep, you who cannot
undo the life you’ve made: the small hands, the legs
that wobbled and tipped toward earth. Grieve the children,
grieve the tree as it falls. Let the green wood
thump into the loose dust. Earth gives life green
then dries it brown. We take wood and form it
either to table or death tool. Who can say?
Let’s close with a time of silence.
A Note
Today for Good Friday, this letter is also available as a podcast. This happens every week, but for the sake of today’s significance, the podcast is available early. Find it wherever you get your podcasts.
Also, just a quick reminder that Blessed Are the Rest of Us: How Limits and Longing Make Us Whole releases in just a week and a half. You can preorder the book right now at Baker Book House, where it’s 40% off the price of other booksellers!
Wowza woman...you wrote this poem? Amazing. Never have I meditated on this scripture. And perfect for Good Friday.
Beautiful.