Pieta
My favourite in this statued building,
though not viewed without emotion,
the mother's bowed head,
sculpted folds of her gown falling,
cradling her son not now as a baby
but here, at the end, in stark sorrow.
Arms that had embraced his followers,
hands that blessed little children,
legs that walked among crowds,
feet that had stood on the mountainside,
now limply falling from his mother's lap,
his body taken lifeless from the cross.
Feared for his challenge to authority,
loved for his message and his miracles,
this the consequence of his mission now fulfilled.
But love of his Father
would bring about a different story,
not long after to be told.