Latin for Way of Suffering, it is grief in any language.
Pilgrims of the call, we walk paths of gold along cobbled streets
marked by the master’s footprints.
Coveting another’s crown (we don’t see the thorns),
we stumble three times under the load of this affliction—
the only cross that can get us there—
and complain about the weight of this gold, accumulating.
The One who walked this way before sees truly,
sees verily, and tells it as it is:
Blessed are you if you not stray, for if you look around or behind
or ahead comes the fall. Beloved, stay in my bloodfeet.
Walk lowly in my shadow ground, know nothing until this moment.
In this way, the gold will stick fast to your soles,
and soon the burden you rebuke will lead you bowed down
up to eternal souls, up to a crown.