The Sixth and Seventh Dolours
"And Joseph, buying fine linen and taking Him down, wrapped Him in the fine linen, and laid Him in a sepulchre which was hewed out of a rock." (St Mark xv. 46.)
1st Prelude. A picture of the Thirteenth Station.
2nd Prelude. Grace to be unselfish in my grief.
Point I.—Mater Dolorosa
As Mary stands at her post, praying for her new family for whom her Son is dying, and uniting herself more closely than ever with His intentions, the sword never ceases to pierce afresh her wounded heart. She has to listen to the cry: "I thirst!" from the parched lips and throat of Him from Whom she had never heard a complaint; and she has to appear to be deaf to His needs. Again she hears a cry, more full of agony even than the last: "My God, My God, why hast Thou forsaken Me!" and she who once lost her Son for three days (the Third Dolour) can understand in some small degree the anguish of that cry. Then after His next words: "All is consummated," she hears Him commend His Soul to His Father, and she watches Him die. She is alone! And not only is she alone, but she has a sense of responsibility. Just as on the occasion of a death among us, the one next has to rise to the responsibility and act at once, so it was with Mary. She was the one next. She knew that it was to her that the Apostles and all His friends would turn to know what to do—what He would like done. He who had died on the Cross "was indeed the Son of God," and she was His Mother; she, if anyone did, must know all about Him. So, although all is over, there is no time for Mary to relax and give way to her grief. There is work to be done—work that He has left her. "It is finished" for Him, but she is only just beginning her work as Mother of the Church. And so she still stands at the Foot of the Cross, reverently worshipping the dead Body to which the Divinity is still united.
Her meditation was suddenly interrupted—"One of the soldiers with a spear pierced His Side"; and again Simeon's prophecy was fulfilled: "Thine own soul a sword shall pierce." Soon followed what is called her Sixth Dolour—the taking down of her Son from the Cross. He was in the hands of friends now, and all was done with the greatest reverence and loving tenderness. But nothing could stay the sword from piercing Mary's heart when she received into her hands the blood-stained Crown of Thorns and the rough nails. Nothing could stay it when she had her Jesus once more in her arms, and was able to see for herself the cruel wounds as she washed them and bound them up. Then when the precious Body had been wrapped in the winding sheet, she accompanied the little cortège which carried It to the tomb. And when, after a few minutes' adoration, she beckoned them all away, and the great stone was rolled to its place, the sword pierced her heart again—it was the Seventh Dolour—the burial of Jesus.
She allowed John to escort her past the three crosses, along the way which He had trodden, back to the Cenacle. "That disciple took her to his own." The next time we make the Way of the Cross, let us make it with Mary as John did. She will explain to us better than anyone else can, the meaning of each "station."
Mary has left Him now, but she is with Him still in spirit and in heart—hence her strength. What a lesson she gives us on how to act in times of bereavement! We are never to lose sight of the fact that this particular kind of suffering is intended for our sanctification. This will prevent us from allowing it to make us morbid, selfish, gloomy, inconsiderate, ungrateful, acting as though our suffering were greater than that of everybody else, being exacting and fastidious about things that remind us of our lost one—even of having the name mentioned in our presence! What about our sacrifice? Are not all such things as these a part of it? We have no business to add to the trials of others by our tyrannical selfishness. Sorrow ought to brace the soul up to greater heights of sanctity; if it depresses it to a lower level of spirituality, there is something very wrong with us. We are not copying Mary, neither are we uniting our sufferings to those of Jesus—the only way of making them meritorious. Let us see to it that our grief is a source of joy and blessing to everyone else in the house. This means self put on one side; it means a smiling face, a bright, cheery, voice in spite of a breaking heart. It means a great sympathy with the grief of others—and it often means that we shall get the credit of not really caring, of not having much depth of affection, not much heart! But this again is part of the sacrifice which we gladly offer if only it may aid suffering in doing its blessed work. There were those, no doubt, who were ready enough to say that Mary's calm courage was unnatural. But we know that it was supernatural: let us try to copy her in it.
Point II.—Mater Misericordiæ