‘My annual poem for the Feast of Mary Magdalene. My favourite saint and patron of my ministry as I celebrate 36 years of priesthood.’
And, clutching her bedraggled hopes, her love,
With heavy tread she limps this barren plain.
The sun casts rising light which she ignores,
For what can warmth achieve in death’s domain.
The garden looms from shadow; trees like men
Who mourn as if bowed under vicious rain.
Her eyes see nothing. Out, beyond her sight,
All closed to life, no joy or light remains.
The horror of the death of him she loved
Seemed then to be the depth of loss and grief,
But now, still worse, his body taken, lost.
How can she move to find this devil thief?
Then one appears and quietly looks at her.
His sympathetic eyes bring her to tears.
And then, he holds her name in love’s embrace,
Her future stretches out in faith filled years.