FROM THE TWENTY-FOUR HOURS OF THE PASSION

My Life, Jesus, making You suffer unheard-of spasms, Your enemies have managed to put You on Your Feet, and as You walk, staggering, I hear Your panting Breath. Your Heart beats more strongly and new pains pierce It intensely. You shake Your Head in order to clear Your Eyes from the Blood that fills them, and You gaze anxiously. Ah, my Jesus, I understood everything – Your Mama, who is searching for You like a moaning dove, wants to tell You one last word, and receive Your last gaze; and You feel Her pains, Her heart lacerated in Yours, moved and wounded by Her Love and by Yours. You see Her pushing Her way through the crowd, wanting at any cost to see You, to hug You, to give You the last good-bye.

But You are more transfixed in seeing Her mortal paleness, and all of your pains reproduced in Her by force of Love. If She lives, it is only by a miracle of Your Omnipotence. You move Your Steps toward Hers, but You can hardly exchange a glance!

Oh, pang of Your two Hearts! The soldiers notice it, and with blows and shoving prevent Mama and Son from exchanging the last good-bye. The torment of both is such that Your Mama remains petrified by the pain, and is about to die. Faithful John and the pious women sustain Her, while You fall again under the Cross. Then, Your sorrowful Mama does with Her soul that which She cannot do with Her Body, because She is prevented: She enters into You, makes the Will of the Eternal One Her own, and associating Herself in all Your Pains, performs the office of Your Mother, kisses You, repairs You, soothes You, and pours the balm of Her sorrowful Love into all Your Wounds!

My suffering Jesus, I too unite with the pierced Mama. I make all Your Pains, and every Drop of Your Blood my own; in each Wound I want to act as a mama for You, and together with Her, and with You, I repair for all the dangerous encounters, and for those who expose themselves to occasions of sin, or, forced by necessity to be exposed, remain entangled in sin.