To see the love here in its labours lost our eyes must grow accustomed to the dark. They see it best who sorrow at his side, the mother and the friend who loved him most. They see his harrowed flesh, the blood, the dirt. They feel the pangs that wrench him from the wood and hurl him back, torn, tethered by the nails. They hear his silent thirsting for his God. The darkness darker than the dread of death descends... Read more







