A Wide Berth

But few had any desire to behold her for long. They did all they could to give her a wide berth. If she moved in on them, or stopped to look at them, they besought all the gods they knew to remove her from them.

For wherever she went she brought pain—searing, tearing, gnawing pain—that drove people mad or sent them to an early grave.

Few escaped her. At one time or another, in every person’s life, she would come to visit. She would bend down and, taking the person in her arms, hold him or her tight. When he was quite dead, she would let him go. Yes, she was queen of an immense domain, ugly Lady Pain.

One moonlit night she found herself in a garden of olive trees. She loved the gnarled and strange shapes etched against the brilliant night.

From afar she saw a Man kneeling before a stone. He seemed to be in utter exhaustion. She moved closer. The Man’s face, lifted to heaven, became distorted by an inner pain which she was conscious was not of her own making. Intrigued, she advanced still nearer. Beads of blood were trickling down the ghostly white face.

A Smile

Suddenly he saw her. An angel, all light, was at the moment holding out a shining chalice to his lips. Over the rim the Man smiled at Lady Pain. No one had ever smiled at her before! She paused to think this over.

At that moment a large crowd came into the garden. There was a great deal of noise and commotion. A man stepped from the crowd and kissed the One who had drunk from the shining chalice. Then he was led away.

Lady Pain followed; she could not help herself. She really did not want to go, but somehow she had to. For the first time in her whole existence, a force greater than her own compelled her.

She gradually lost sight of him. Her heart beat wildly over her loss. She could not rest now. She had to find the Man who had smiled upon her.

In the distance she heard the all too familiar sounds of floggings. She had always attended such affairs; otherwise there would be nothing to them. Although she felt strangely reluctant, she went anyway.

And there he was, being flogged by the Roman soldiers. She could not comprehend what was happening to her. She wanted to cry out, to stop the torture, to put her thin body between him and the whips. But she could not move.

For an instant he lifted his head. Again their eyes met, and he smiled.

She covered her face with her thin, gaunt hands and wept. The feeling of tears was utterly new to her. She pondered over that. Later, when she saw him mocked and crowned with thorns, anger took hold of her. But before she could move against his enemies with her own deadly power, they took him inside the palace.

Disconsolate, unable to bear the pain that had flooded her heart so suddenly, the queen of pain walked away. She was majestic even in her grief. Whoever met her in this condition took one look at her and ran as if his very life depended on it.

Day passed into night. She found herself on a hill on which three crosses stood. On the cross in the middle hung the Man, crucified. He hung there like a piece of fruit dying on a branch.

She could not endure the pain which came to her from that dying figure. She ran up to the very foot of the cross. She started to tear the heavy nails from his feet. Blood, his blood, fell on her and coursed gently down her face and garments.

Ruby Red

She looked up and saw that he was dead. She looked at her clothes and noticed that they had been dyed ruby red. She turned, and a wave of admiration rippled through the onlooking crowd. Slowly she walked away. She sat down by the side of a lake to rest.

She saw her face reflected on the calm surface of the water. She did not like to see herself most of the time. But—what was this? She did not recognize herself! She was beautiful!
Somehow her eyes had been purified, and she saw beyond her ugliness to her beauty within.

And that is why ever since, men who are able to see more deeply know that Love wedded himself to Lady Pain, and that Love can make her beautiful—as beautiful as she saw herself on that day of Love’s death.

From Not Without Parables, pp.185-187, available from MH Publications.