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Thirty three years ago, he was my baby, bore Him, warmed Him, watched over Him, dressed him, nursed Him, cradled Him in my arms. Thirty three years ago. Now He is dead, dead! Nailed to the cross like a thief, broken, bleeding like a slaughtered beast. What have He done to them? to the priests, to the governor and the people who shouted and screamed? What has He done to them? When all words that came out of His mouth were kind words and love even for his enemies. Now He is gone and I shall never know the healing touch and gladness of Him again. My son, my little one. Oh Jesus, is it cold out there my son? I cannot reach you where you are nailed, only your feet, your broken feet. Where my hand reached my bosom. I will wait for you, hungry, yearning like the night I bore you and pressed you close to me to protect you from the chilling night wind inside the stable. Now my hand can only stretch but cannot hold you. My arms cannot enfold you, I cannot get up to you. I am cramped and cold and beaten. I cannot reach you in your cross where you are hanging. They shouted for your blood. They screamed for your life. They cried out for your death. Now you are dead but your death shall change everything. I can see the end of war in your day...someday.I can see the end of hatred and the coming of love. I can see a newer courage. A new kind of duty. I can see the joy of women and little children. Someday I can see cities and great spaces of land full of happiness. I can see love shining in every face. In your death, there shall be no more hatred.... no more killing..... no more pain......no pain... No lust...No death...Only life...only love.... only You and Your kingdom, my Son.

-Wangkie Mandap

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13y ago

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