Good Friday 2
She took the ointment from the uncorked jar
And wept with those few friends that had not fled;
And near the new wound found a tiny scar
That she had tended; but now He was dead.
Perhaps this was no duty for a stranger
But who was left to satisfy the rites;
She had seen more than they of death and danger,
Of futile but courageous words and fights.
Teach us to be with You when You are sad
And, with our wounds, recall Your ancient scars;
What hurts us now in coming to Your aid
Is slight beside the suffering that was Yours:
And may we have the strength to stay with You
And say You live when they would have You dead;
And, awkward though we are, may we be true
And sooth with balm where thorns impaled Your head.