(no subject)
"It was the sixth hour, and a great darkness spread over the land.
Why did it grow dark at this point? What had happened between heaven and earth? The scene was stil the same, no on had thought up any new torture, the soilders were still throwing dice for his tunic: the passion was stagnating in funeral expectation. But what was really happening was a death inside a death. During those three hours, until the ninth, he was wrestling with an even worse executioner, he was undergoing a more appaling annihilation. As in the garden, there was again this monstrous silence: but here it was a thousand times worse, because suddenly everything- his goodness and man's malice, the gentle cornfields and the polecats that laid them waste- all seemed utterly and grotesquely pointless.
As from the sixth hour the dying Christ was an orphan. He no longer had His mother, He'd given her to someone else. And now the Father died on Him; those three hours of darkness were the agony of the Father in His brain.
"My God, why have you abandoned me?"
The other words He said from the cross were forced out in a weak voice from an exhausted body. But these he shouted with a great voice; it was a shout which had to reach the most desperate and remote, those who would remain unmoved by the groans and the blood; all those, who, when going over the story of the passion heard from a priest in childhood, say, "But my life is far worse than that afternoon on the cross."
Within the layers of that darkness He was the God of those people. Where's the tragic put in the depths of which man is most sad and most stifled by a deadly sickness? It's here: Christ plunged into it and was equal with all the unhappy people who have lost the Father; because He never reconed to be born and to die amoung the living without SHARING THE NIGHT HOUR WITH US ALL."
-Luigi Santucci
Why did it grow dark at this point? What had happened between heaven and earth? The scene was stil the same, no on had thought up any new torture, the soilders were still throwing dice for his tunic: the passion was stagnating in funeral expectation. But what was really happening was a death inside a death. During those three hours, until the ninth, he was wrestling with an even worse executioner, he was undergoing a more appaling annihilation. As in the garden, there was again this monstrous silence: but here it was a thousand times worse, because suddenly everything- his goodness and man's malice, the gentle cornfields and the polecats that laid them waste- all seemed utterly and grotesquely pointless.
As from the sixth hour the dying Christ was an orphan. He no longer had His mother, He'd given her to someone else. And now the Father died on Him; those three hours of darkness were the agony of the Father in His brain.
"My God, why have you abandoned me?"
The other words He said from the cross were forced out in a weak voice from an exhausted body. But these he shouted with a great voice; it was a shout which had to reach the most desperate and remote, those who would remain unmoved by the groans and the blood; all those, who, when going over the story of the passion heard from a priest in childhood, say, "But my life is far worse than that afternoon on the cross."
Within the layers of that darkness He was the God of those people. Where's the tragic put in the depths of which man is most sad and most stifled by a deadly sickness? It's here: Christ plunged into it and was equal with all the unhappy people who have lost the Father; because He never reconed to be born and to die amoung the living without SHARING THE NIGHT HOUR WITH US ALL."
-Luigi Santucci