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The Fridays of Lent, churches around the world open their doors to pray the Stations of the Cross, a tradition promoted by Saint Leonard of Port Maurice (d.1751). These stations mark the path of Jesus from his condemnation before Pilate, to his death, burial and resurrection. These reflections, written by Rev. Richard Furey of Baltimore (1984) walk through the passion of our Lord, through His Mother Mary’s eyes.

Pope Benedict XVI explains:

“The Way of the Cross” is not only a great testimony to an inner depth and maturity, but it is in fact a school for interiority and consolation. It is also a school for the examination of conscience, for conversion, for inner transformation and compassion – not as sentimentality, as a mere feeling, but as a disturbing experience that knocks on the door or my heart, that obliges me to know myself and to become a better person.”

Blessed Prayer!

My Lord and my God,
Under the loving eyes of our Mother,
We are making ready to accompany You
along this path of sorrow,
which was the price paid for our redemption.
We wish to suffer all that You suffered,
To offer You our poor, contrite hearts,
because You are innocent, and yet
You are going to die for us,
who are the only really guilty ones.
My mother, Virgin of sorrows,
help us to relive those bitter hours,
which your Son wished to spend on earth,
so that we, who were made from a handful of clay,
may finally live in the freedom and glory of the children of God.
Amen.


Stations I-V:

We adore you, O Christ, and we praise you, because by Your holy Cross, you have redeemed the world.

___

Stations VI-XI:

We adore you, O Christ, and we praise you, because by Your holy Cross, you have redeemed the world.

___

Stations XII-XVI:

We adore you, O Christ, and we praise you, because by Your holy Cross, you have redeemed the world.

Let us pray:

Sonnet to our Lord on the Cross

I am not moved to love you, O my God,
That I might hope in promised heaven to dwell;
nor am I moved by fear of pain in hell
to turn from sin and follow where you trod.
You move me, Lord, broken beneath the rod,
Or stretched out on the cross, as nails compel
you hand to twitch. It moves me that we sell,
to mockery and death, your precious blood.
It is, O Christ, your love which moves me so,
that my love rests not on a promised prize;
Nor holy fear on threat of endless woe,
It is not milk and honey, buy the flow
of blood from blessed wounds before my eyes,
that waters my buried soul and makes it grow.
(Anonymous)

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