without dying you won the martyr's crown
beside the cross of the Lord.
Alleluia, alleluia!
It was eerily quiet. The bloody orgy has come to a halt. It was Passover's eve and not a soul dare incur ritual impurity so as to be rendered unfit for the unfolding festival. Most everyone has left
Except for Mary...
She remained.
She's crouching on where she was standing just a short while ago. She remained on that same spot. She's not going anywhere. She's not moving.
She'll remain.
On her lap lays her dead son's body, limp and cold. His face, swollen and encrusted with scum and caked blood, nevertheless still radiates serenity and love. He's all hers now.
Mary's face was puffy. Eyes hardly opening, soaked up in salty tears. Her arms tenderly caressing her lifeless treasure, all purple and blue and grim. She drew her face nearer his and whispered something delicate. And on her lips... that knowing smile.
She knew it's not over yet.
Her heart tells her that indeed, this is just a pass-over.
The best is yet to come.
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