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Station 12.jpg

jesus dies on the cross

Untitled design (9).png
Untitled design (9).png

station 12: mortal coil

Station 12.jpg

Hear our prayers

For all who’ve seen death up close.

Or been sideswiped by it.

For all who’ve stared into the face of

“it is finished, it is over, this is it.”

For all who’ve said,

“not yet, not like this,

please just not this."


Hear our cries, hear our laments.

The Many - Lamb of God

by Didi Jackson


Do you know what I was, how I lived?
—Louise Glück


It is a goldfinch
one of the two

small girls,
both dau

of a friend,
sees hit the window

and fall into the fern.
No one hears

the small thump but she,
the youngest, sees

the flash of gold
against the mica sky

as the limp feathered envelope
crumples into the green.

How many times
in a life will we witness

the very moment of death?
She wants a box

and a small towel
some kind of comfort

for this soft body
that barely fits

in her palm. Its head
rolling side to side,

neck broke, eyes still wet
and black as seed.

Her sister, now at her side,
wears a dress too thin

for the season,
white as the winter

only weeks away.
She wants me to help,

wants a miracle.
Whatever I say now

I know weighs more
than the late fall’s

layered sky,
the jeweled leaves

of the maple and elm.
I know, too,

it is the darkest days
I’ve learned to praise —

the calendar packages up time,
the days shrink and fold away

until the new season.
We clothe, burn,

then bury our dead.
I know this;

they do not.
So we cover the bird,

story its flight,
imagine his beak

They pick the song

and sing it
over and over again.

Were You There - Leslie Michele