“A Hymn to Death on a Cross”
By Fr. Bonaventure Sauer, OCD | As seen in the Apostolate of the Little Flower, Vol. 88, No. 1
One thing I enjoy doing, as a kind of hobby to pass the time and feed the soul, is to take a short biblical passage and juice it up a bit. It is a way of meditating upon the passage closely and making it my own. I try to put the passage in poetic form—or to keep it in poetic form if it already is—like passages from the prophets or the Psalms.
The following I worked up last summer while recovering from surgery. It’s based on the hymn Paul quotes in his letter to the church in Philippi (Phil 2:6-11). You can see that I’ve lengthened the passage considerably. I’ve also taken the phrase from the hymn “even death on a cross” (Phil 2:8) and substituted the account of Jesus’ death on the cross as told in Mark’s Gospel (Mk 15:25-37).
The hymn Paul quotes in Philippians is, of course, not by Paul himself. In the Greek text this is pretty obvious. Thus, the passage, while being in itself a high point in all of Scripture, also opens a window for us into the earliest Christian poetry. It deserves, therefore, a translation into modern poetic expression that preserves its poetic spirit.
Mine is more of a meditation upon the hymn than a translation of it. At best you might call it a very free translation. Maybe after reading the following, and then returning to the original in your Bible, you can meditate on the passage for yourself and even engage in a little free translation of your own. It would be an interesting addition to your keeping of Lent.
A Modern Poetic Expression of Philippians 2:6-11
He sat at God’s table, ate God’s bread,
Drank God’s wine; he knew he was welcome
As God’s dearly beloved. But he knew, too,
That he was there at the Father’s table
Only at the Father’s good pleasure—the Father’s
Pleasure being to love him. Thus, he held
No illusions about any merits of his own,
Any particular self-importance or self-worth.
When asked, therefore, he rose and left,
Descending the long spiral staircase ‘til
He reached the bottom and stepped out on
The wintry, frozen earth. Now what to do,
He asked? He got a job making widgets, one
After another; working for peanuts, he put
In his hours, punched his card, and lifted
A few beers with the bros after work.
He saw all around him the pained smiles
Of women, wives, and mothers, the angry eyes
Of husbands and fathers, the hopes and desires
Come to nothing of children now adults—
He saw, that is, the anguish suffered by so many,
Their spirits withered like weeds in a blighted field,
Or the muteness of mourners struck mute
By the blank, stone faces of those they mourn.
Through it all he grew weary in heart and soul,
Hobbled in body, ready to succumb to the logic
Of life’s pointlessness by slipping into despair as if
It were a bathrobe. Instead, he shook it off,
Shed a few tears, and, reaching down into the resolve
That still fired his heart, he cried aloud to heaven,
Even as death came slithering up to him
And wrapped its stiff coils around his hands and feet.
. . . It was nine o’clock in the morning
When the nails pinned him to the cross
Like a monarch butterfly in a display case.
His flow chart read, “Came to Help People—
Failed miserably.” Beside him hung
Two Bolsheviks, affixed to their dry bones,
Cursing humanity. Bystanders debunked him,
Wagging their heads, hands on their hips,
Taunting him in these words: “So, you would
Tear down the old, raise up the new, all
In an afternoon; why don’t you save yourself
By leaping free of this cross like an Olympian.”
Likewise a few power-brokers and pundits
Stood by giving him a piece of their minds.
The chyron beneath their talking heads read:
“Purportedly he saved others, but, my gosh,
What a flop he’s proven when really tested, helpless
To save himself. He’s nothing but a demagogue
And a fraud. If only he’d show a little spine
And launch a missile or two at his enemies,
Then we’d sit up.” Even the Bolsheviks on both sides
Joined in the fun, dropping a few f-bombs
On him. At noon it became eerily dark,
Staying that way until three in the afternoon
When a shout broke the silence, slamming
Against the surrounding hills, slicing
The air like a butcher knife through ripe melon.
These were the words that rode the cry, Eloi, Eloi,
Lema sabachthani?—cryptic words of ages past,
Resonant as a wooden bowl with markings etched
Inside. To others of a later day the words
Sounded unmistakably like, “My God, my God,
Why have you forsaken me?”—recognizable to all
As the first line of Psalm 22, or so those standing near
Insisted. But to others it seemed like he was calling
For divine intervention. “I bet he’s summoning
Elijah,” one said; and another had the bright idea
Of running over, soaking a sponge in wine,
Attaching it to a stick, and pressing it to his lips.
“You know, Elijah just may show,” he said,
Not really believing it. Then, unexpectedly,
A long-drawn-out groan escaped him,
and Jesus Breathed his last . . .
(Mark 15:25-37)
And so it was that God lifted him on high,
Putting him at the center of His Reign,
Shouting Here He Belongs in a voice
So musical it tamed every ear. Hearing
This tune issuing forth on a breeze, all took
Their seats while a hush swept over them,
Over all God’s holy ones—those still sojourning
On the earth, and those sunk irretrievably
In the tar pits of death; and, lo and behold,
The whole human race began to sing
A song of happy allegiance to Jesus the Lord,
Bringing joy to the heart of God the Father.
Fr. Bonaventure Sauer, OCD entered the Discalced Carmelite Province of St. Thérèse in 1984 and was ordained in 1992. He’s held a number of responsibilities in the Province, including Provincial Delegate of the Secular Order, a position in which he’s gladly served since 2008. He presently lives at the Marylake Monastery in Little Rock, AR.