This poem also appears in the March 2026 issue of U.S. Catholic (Vol. 91, No.3, page 8). Click here to subscribe to the magazine.
Via Dolorosa
When Jesus was condemned
he took up his cross but then fell.
His mother helped him up
as did another, who wiped his face,
but still he fell again. After meeting
then the woman from the capital,
he fell yet again, which is when he
was stripped of his garments.
Some standing along the road
glanced askance at each other,
wondering, together as one—
Yes, clearly the cross is heavy,
made as it is from the wood of cedar, pine,
and cypress, so falling once is understandable,
as is, perhaps, even twice, but one more than that?
Are these moments meant to mean differently?
These roadside skeptics were there for the rest, too—
the nailing and the raising, the dying and the lowering,
the entombing and the disappearing—and were moved,
but what to make of that falling? They wondered.
Had Dismas, the thief on his left, fallen so often
on his way? Had Gestas, the thief on his right?
No, neither had. Because for them, Golgotha
was not so steep, its summit not so very high.
