Before I read the second half of Mary
Magdalene, a word of background.
The setting is Britain.
How she came to be there, you will
have to wait for next year to find
out, because that's the first poem for next
December, though I have it in my mind.
All of the people mentioned in this poem
are historical people, and all the places are
historical places, but whether they intersected in this
way is doubtful, though possible.
Mary Magdalene, part two.
Now almost thirty years have passed since Mary
stood like stone, aghast at suffering so great,
there were no words, no tears, no screams
for her to use, but what would seem
so faint as if an infinite complaint should
fall from Mary's lips, but be then nothing
more than agony.
How many times she heard him say that
powers of darkness have their day, the Son
of Man must suffer at the hands of
scribes and priests, and that he would be
put to death, but oh, the breach between
the words we know and what they signify.
What she had seen that dreadful day would
be forever on the other side of speech,
however poets tried to speak the pain in
vain.
But now, three thousand miles away, the vow
that Mary Magdalene had made to Christ that
day was being paid to one Baladicea, Queen
of Iceni, a tribe between Iboricum and Isca
on the Isle of Britannia.
The dawn had brought the news that all
her tents were burned, the Roman recompense for
all the Celtic Queen's bloodshed, when sixty thousand
Romans bled along the Thames and made it
red with blood beside Londinium.
The dread of Roman vengeance now was felt
in full, and every fighting Celt, Baladicea's great
defense, was dead by Roman sword, and hence
the Queen prepared the poison, drank the cup,
and lay down on the bank beside the
river Severn, there to die.
But in her swoon a pair of servants,
fearing for her soul in secret, swiftly came
and stole away their weak and dying Queen
and took her up to Diva, scene of
all the ministry that one called Mary Magdalene
had done for twenty years.
The servants had believed on Jesus Christ, and
clad with simple woolen clothes, they bore their
wealthy Queen in silk before the woman with
the message of eternal life, in hope that
love would triumph in the final hour and
Christ would show His gracious power and save
their honored Queen.
They laid her on a cot while Mary
made a potion on the fire and prayed,
O Lord, the mercy you displayed in saving
me, pour out on this great Queen and
let her know the bliss beyond the silk
and eminence of rank and wealth.
O Lord, dispense your healing might and grant
a space of life till she has tasted
grace.
And then Mary gave the Queen a sip.
She used a sponge and touched her lip
as tenderly as if she were her child.
Then the slightest stir gave Mary hope.
Your Highness, do you hear me?
Mary asked.
Your two good servants brought you here.
My name is Mary Magdalene.
I came to your great island twenty years
ago and I have seen your tears when
Romans waited till your man was dead, then,
ere your grief could span a week, attacked
the grieving court and tortured you and made
a sport of all your little girls.
I saw you mount an army out of
raw and raging isony and slay ten Roman
legions in a day beside the River Thames.
And now, Boadicea, there is a vow that
I must pay.
And God has sent me here to tell
you what He meant when thirty years ago
the Lord and Maker of creation poured His
life in blood out on the beams designed
for Roman screams of criminals.
Can you hear me, Your Highness?
Mary paused.
The Queen opened her eyes.
You caused my suicide to fail.
And now the Romans will arrive and plow
your back and mine with furrows for their
pleasure.
Better had the door of this small hut
been shut and sealed.
The futile grace that wants me healed is
not so merciful as my assistants think.
To let me die at once and keep
my simple plan had been a better kindness
than to make me live and drink the
grief and torture of a Roman chief.
Your Highness, listen.
You shall get your death before the dew
is wet upon tomorrow's grass.
This brew that you have drunk cannot renew
your life, but only add a breath, perhaps
a day, before your death.
And oh, I pray that you will see
it is not a futile grace to be
kept back from hell one day to find
your way to heaven.
May the servants who have loved you well
be granted their desire to dwell with you
forever in the place where Jesus Christ displays
his grace with never-ending joy for those
who come and cease to be his foes.
But I want to see you let the
words sink in and listen as the birds
of her beloved homeland sang their final song
and fed the pang of Mary's words.
One breath, you say.
Is that it now?
Perhaps a day?
She asked.
And Mary nodded.
Yes?
And you, the common serf, profess to know
the way to heaven?
I do, Boadicea.
And do you?
I think whatever God there is has made
it clear to me that his design for
life is misery.
There is little ground for me to think
it will be different in eternity.
My life has been a chain with links
made out of fraud and pain.
So deeply am I flawed that I will
take more secrets to the grave than there
is time for you to hear.
There are no mysteries with God, said Mary.
Jesus sees the field, the chamber, and the
soul.
What's more, your Highness, there's a goal for
misery that's more than wrath or even pain.
It is a path, if you will have
it so, that wakes the sleeping soul from
death and breaks the bondage of a thousand
charms.
And as for flaws, these are alarms that
we must have a ransom paid.
Boadicea, God has laid his Son out on
a Roman cross so that if you believe
his loss will be your everlasting gain, you
speak so easily of pain and loss, the
dying Queen replied.
My husband and my daughters died at Roman
hands.
The honors of my queenship were denied and
love withheld because I was a slave before
King Prasutagus gave me liberty and risked his
crown to marry me.
And now the frown of God, if God's
there be, goes down with me to hell
because by my own sin and cowardice I
die.
So, Mary, is there hope for me?
Boadicea looked to see if there was censure
in her face and wondered at the tears
and trace of joy in Mary's eyes.
O Queen Boadicea, come and lean on merits
not your own and hear the story I
will tell to cheer your final hours.
I will collapse my fifty years in little
scraps of memory to show you why there's
hope for you and me.
When I was almost ten in Galilee, my
cultic mother traded me to Herod Antipas.
He gave her seven sheep to gain a
slave.
For eight years I was locked inside a
palace room and used to guide the king
with sorcery.
Then one night he threw me out and
when I was about to die alone, deserted
on the killing stone, a man named Jesus
took my hand and seven fiends at his
command took leave and never came again.
For two years in his service then I
watched his every deed and heard with my
own ears the mighty word of God.
He made the dumb man talk, the blind
to see, the lame to walk, the deaf
to hear, the leper clean, the harlot treated
like a queen.
I served him every way I could, but
in the end I found the good I
thought I did for him to be a
gift for he was serving me.
For this he told us he would die
and die he did before my eye.
You saw a man get crucified, the queen
inquired.
I stood beside his mother, close enough to
hear the very words he spoke and clear
as thunder in a whisper he declared a
word of hope for me and for a
thief who hung beside him there and now
it was designed I see also with you
in mind.
Oh queen of isony, give heed to what
the robber said in need.
Dear Jesus, is there hope for me?
To which the Lord replied, you'll be today
because of this great price with me my
son in paradise.
And there I made a vow.
If I could ever help a person die
I promise I will speak this word.
Go I to see you.
Have you heard what Jesus said?
Now that he is risen from the dead
you see it will be true.
How do you know he's risen from the
dead?
The glow of dawn was bright above the
grave and there the Lord of glory gave
the highest honor of my life a slave
as though I were his wife was granted
first to see the Lord.
Go I to see his eyes stared toward
the sky and she was silent for an
hour.
Mary thought the door of life had closed
but suddenly she whispered softly Mary, say to
me I mean, did you once have a
man, a husband?
Mary didn't plan for this and simply said,
I did.
His name was Joseph.
And a kid?
She asked again.
Mary drew her breath and slowly Three.
So you have tasted loss and still believe
with all the loss there is to grieve?
I don't think much about the loss.
When you have stood before the cross and
know that all is lost and then see
Jesus Christ alive again it alters everything.
And so I ask and plead before you
go, Boazia Do you see your only hope
for life is he?
Again the pause made Mary fear but then
God let his servant hear the final words
of this great queen.
Thank God for Mary Magdalene.
And now as we light candle four and
slowly close another door of time remember when
we come next year to read of Joseph
some of us will not be here.
Come, light and flame of candle four burn
bright with truth that all our grief and
woe are given us to help us know
how we can take our wings and fly
or help another person die.
The lesson of her life is plain that
every loss is meant for gain for God's
beloved naught is vain God does not waste
the gift of pain.