So little time, just three short years,
and so much to convey. One way
you chose was telling gripping stories
or sharing bread and wine with those
you loved, which now, two thousand
years later, is part of our own story.
Stripped of dignity, agency, even rags
to hide your shame, you stretched and
pulled the sky down to witness tragedy,
embodying the qualities of forgiveness
and pure love we applauded in your tales
of the Good Samaritan and Prodigal Son.
As you hang, helpless, offering a final gift
to your mother and beloved friend, is this
the story’s happy ending you expected?