Waiting at the station,

the platform held me at attention.

The iron lines lie parallel

and secure with rusty spikes.

Underneath were white stones

large enough to kill someone.

Twin rails, identical, dependent

like a yoke to carry a burden.

Similar tracks would guide

into Auschwitz–Birkenau.

Underneath were white stones

large enough to kill someone.

I stood, head down, hands behind

my back without cuffs.

Thoughts of freedom ring

like scraping of iron on iron.

Underneath were white stones

large enough to kill someone.

There were stations of crossover.

Humans standing, gazing

on the Via Delarosa,

their eyes like two rails.

Underneath were white stones

large enough to kill someone.

It is a Good Friday to stand in a nave.

To look on the One who bore

the railroad ties in juxtaposition.

The oxidized nails set.

Underneath were white stones

large enough to kill someone.

Stationary, I am to remember a Way

beyond my ability to suffer.

I fell on the platform he laid

hoping to carry His burden for a moment.

Underneath were white stones

large enough to kill someone.

Instead I grasped a stone

to hurl at an innocent Jew.

He turned the white washed

piece over in my palm.

Underneath the white stone

was written a name

and on it blood fell.

Traditionally Good Friday is a day where Christians observe the Stations of the Cross.  I researched it a bit and found a rich reserve of images on which to meditate.  The death of Christ need not be observed as “I know this already” but fresh and heart breaking.  Gratitude and brokenness melted my heart this morning.  I may never fully grasp the the greatest act of love in history, but today I will try again.