Just opposite from where

i saw Christ that day

i saw His Mother as she made her way

to where he lay

shot and bleeding on the ground

strange that her sobbing made no sound.

i got of the glider and turned around

as the crowd were swearing at His body dead

i looked and saw it -the hole in His head-

it’s only a joyrider they shouted at me

but it wasn’t only a joy rider that i could see lying there

but a boy, a boy who had potential, with bloodied hair.

His, Mother she was, i recognised her pain

as though she was standing at His cross again.

the crowd waited and booed as the ambulance

moved and the cops persued

and there, lost in the crowd His Mother stood

head lowered and lips in prayer

i knew she was His Mother

grieving there!

and i went home sad and alone

was i becoming more of His pain or more of the crowd?

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