Even there upon the cross,
weight of the world pressing down
upon the nails that held you up
was not enough to keep your eyes
from meeting hers,
more to carry, her caring for you,
waiting now to hold you again
in year-weary weathered arms
as she had done once long ago
under a bitter cold Bethlehem night
washing off the smeared birth blood
before the visitors,
before the songs,
before the gifts,
before any thought
that it could one day end like this.