I initiate \Articles \
Author: Rafael Garcia Ramos (Technical Engineer)


The eyes are the floodgates of the soul. They enter them, like deep rivers, the imágen and the written word, which are activating the feelings, the memory, the understanding and the will. Reading friend, reading friend, now, if you want, of the hand of this retired engineer, we will get in the vein of the time and on having backtracked it, will come to a place that they call a Calvary, to ponder what pupils appear to ours already weary. As the only baggage, we will only take The Compassion and an assumed truth that he says: "The exercise of the commiseration on the human being who suffers, is a patrimony of the soul, with independence of the religion that is practised".

A Man has just expired in excruciante Cross death, executed person with fierceness. To his feet we contemplate the pathetic figure of the Mother of this one Crucified, a Woman who, without losing the composure, supports the fixed look, with infinite sorrow, in the corpse tetanizado of his Son sewed to a stick with gory nails of iron and which figure is projected in the horizon of a blackened sky.

Maria, hears the chilling shriek that follows him to the crack that produces the forceful blow with which the legs break to two thieves crucified along with his Jesus. He will observe, with sobreañadida it distresses, how the soldier, executor of similar action, goes towards his Son and it will hear that someone convinces the executioner so that it desists from his intention, because the Culprit has already died. It will see, how the soldier, to assure it, with a spear will open the side of the Crucified one, a lance thrust that will cross the Heart of the Son and the Heart of the Mother simultaneously.

The Gospel does not report it, but: who doubts it?, the last consolation is granted to this Mother. It receives in his arms the rigid and cold corpse of the Son, a dead body got soaked in liquid pleural, blood, purulent perspiration, vinegar, myrrh and thick saliva.

The sky and the ground have silenced of sorrow and sadness, only there hears the tenuous rustle of a gorge Woman's voice, which has his cheek given to the frozen cheek of his lifeless Son, a Mother's supreme lamentation that exhausts the bitterness of his Heart to which he already has not left any more that to suffer: …” my Son... My son... My son ”.

It gets dark already and they start of Maria's arms the body of the Son that they are going to embalm and bury.

To two thousand years of this horrifying scene, what appears to our sight, be believing or not, a Woman is a widow, of approximately fifty and a few years, which there receives, between the knees and the arms, the corpse of his Son, a Young man, of approximately thirty and a few years, that it has just expired, in an extreme desolation, fixed in a stick in the shape of Cross, a Cross, now it empties, on that this one Mother supports the back, a beam that has adhered in his matchwood shreds of the skin, of the hair and of the meat of Christ, a beam got soaked in the Blood of Crucified God.

If you have come so far, my friend, my friend, I am sure that the compassion will have been generated in your soul towards this Woman, with an unfading desire to do to him to come the fondness, the tenderness and the affectionate heat of your silent company because the words do not go out for you.

It gets dark, it is a Saturday eve, and Maria, the Mother, takes in his hand, interlaced, Juan's hand, which has taken possession of the heredity of the Crucified one, of this Mother, who is already his Mother. They walk slowly, in silence, only his footsteps are heard on the stone pavement of the streets of Jerusalem. Juan ponders: “... the Mother of the God's Son is my Mother ”, “... the Mother of the Teacher is my Mother ”.

Everything has been fulfilled, Virgin Mary understands: “así it had to happen because this way it was written ”. In a little time they have separated him from the Love but he has left the Faith and the Hope that bring to him to the memory those words of his Jesus: “Madre mine, to the third day I resuscitate ”.

The night it has closed, it is already cold. Juan places the arm on the shoulder of his Mother. Between gray and black clouds it puts out the full moon that projects the figures of Juan and of Maria on the roadway. I see a third shade that moves to the step of the Mother and of the son. I rub the eyes surprised... Who goes with Maria and Juan?...: are you, friendly darling!: are you, friendly darling!: it is me who is! that, on having stopped reading this reflection, we have turned into only THE COMPASSION.

I am grateful to him for his work, really it serves to me
Rafael Martinez
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