THE WEEPING HEART

THE WEEPING HEART 

Oh Mary, my Blessed Mother, I see the tears that flow from your heart: tears immersing into rivers of despair. This reservoir of sorrow, is so deep, so vast, like veins hanging, weeping, like a willow tree. I feel, and hear your tears falling—each tear, each drop, splashing its sorrow upon my heart; each tear, for every aborted baby; each tear, for every child, abused and abandoned. 

The torment which you endured, as your Son suffered, and died on the cross; again, you endure pain and sorrow—the sorrow for your children. The pain never ceases—it never ends. Your arms of mercy, are always there, to embrace the broken pieces—the pieces of parts, with no name. 

For the grace of a birth, is disgraced with aborted parts—Evil so strong, so selfish, so deceptive. No conscience, of the outcome. No conscience, to the act. The disposal of life is crucified, again and again. No rational of thoughts, or words, or feelings is justifiable in this horrendous subtraction of life. No love, of any kind, could dispense such hypocrisy. 

Like a wolf in sheep’s clothing, the passion of lust, is the blindness of God’s divine law. The debate rages on—of life’s beginning, while death rages on—of the unborn. New life, so pure, so innocent of its surroundings, massacred! A new life cut short, no voice for itself: taken away, butchered and discarded! 

Oh Mary, my Blessed Mother, the Mother of all children, embrace these broken beings. With tears of our weeping hearts, we can clean them, wash them, together! We can hold them, and encompass them with our love. We can give them all, a place to rest. 

I call onto your mercy and intercession, for the reversal of such distorted thinking. Who shall be held accountable? I cannot curse the mother; but curse the action, and law that permits it to happen. 

So the question remains: when does life begin? How simple the logic. For if there is death, then life is beforehand. Life, is all substance that grows! Growth is life! For all of nature, this is true! And of the human, life begins, with the fertilized egg. Of all the sperms that dance, only a few, are pre-selected by God, to emerge to creation—chosen, to be a special someone; to bring special gifts of its life; to fulfill its obligation to completion. Life is most sacred, and blessed and no one, no one shall interfere. 

For birth, is only the blossom. Does not a flower grow with life, before it blossoms? 

Does not a tree grow in life, before it gives fruit? So simple the logic! 

Oh Mary, my Blessed Mother, and of the children who have no name; they too, have weeping hearts: neglected, forgotten, abused, beaten, broken in spirit. Victims, of love gone bad. Evil! Evil overtaking society—materialistic pleasures and misguided values, continue to erode any sensibility to common sense. The loss of moral and spiritual values, erode the responsibility of mankind, to destruction. Love for another, is losing, for love of self. 

Oh Mary, my Blessed Mother, your tears of sorrow fall on me, and I know they are from you. The compassion of your heart, enters into my soul, and your tears are the sea, that churns the tides inside. For each wave produces a new face, and more, aborted pieces. The willow tree, hangs its veins downward, as if in mourning: each little leaf, a statistic in mourning, weeping from heaven. Is it any wonder, your tears fall from statues of your image? This is the magnitude, of your love and sorrow. This hurt so strong, weeping for another, and another. 

I stand under a willow tree, and feel your presence pouring over me. Your tears, are my tears. We weep together in silence. Each new statistic, sprouts a new leaf on the vein, engulfing us, in our sorrow of tears. For this, is but only one tree, in a forest of hundreds. I walk to each tree, listening to the veins, calling out—weeping, like a falling mist. This is my cemetery, of broken pieces, with no name. The sea of tears within, fall on the ground in sorrow, giving peace, to the innocent: so gentle, so pure, so many pieces. The veil of the weeping branches grow, as the unborn, blossom on the trees. Blossoms that weep, with no name.

Robert J. Varrick 

rjvarrick@gmail.com