by Catherine Doherty.
His pain is mine. I found Gethsemane in the eyes of a child in a Mexican part of a town. Bloody sweat rolled down my face when I saw a rich woman without grace riding in an expensive car, through poor streets, with a haughty air.
I felt the kiss of whips when my eyes fell on a man who had sold his soul for gold. The crown of thorns ate into my flesh when I looked at hungry youths and saw them fed with stones instead of bread.
The weight of the cross crushed me into the dust when a harlot passed dressed in robes of gold. I was stripped naked when men of God sold him again for pomp and power that weighed more than thirty Roman silver coins.
The nails entered deep into my hands and feet when I beheld parents making their homes hell. I died eight thousand deaths, lifted high up to the sky, when I saw a town cut in two by the bleeding avenue of a color line.
Thus his pain is mine.
—Excerpted from Lubov, (1985), p. 67, Living Flame Press, out of print.
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