"He instinctively can find the shining greatness of our American culture and does a good job of highlighting it (although he also does have those rare lapses when he writes about hockey, but that is something caused by impurities in the Eastern waters or something)." Erik Keilholtz
Under the patronage of St. Tammany
Mark C. N. Sullivan is an editor at a Massachusetts university. He is married and the father of three children. Email
Mother, why are people crowding now and staring? Child, it is a malefactor goes to His doom, To the high hill of Calvary He's faring, And the people pressing and pushing to make room Lest they miss the sight to come.
Oh, the poor malefactor, heavy is His load! Now He falls beneath it and they goad Him on. Sure the road to Calvary's a steep up-hill road -- Is there none to help Him with His Cross -- not one? Must He bear it all alone?
Here is a country boy with business in the city, Smelling of the cattle's breath and the sweet hay; Now they bid him lift the Cross, so they have some pity: Child, they fear the malefactor dies on the way And robs them of their play.
Has He no friends then, no father nor mother, None to wipe the sweat away nor pity His fate? There's a woman weeping and there's none to soothe her: Child, it is well the seducer expiate His crimes that are so great.
Mother, did I dream He once bent above me, This poor seducer with the thorn-crowned head, His hands on my hair and His eyes seemed to love me? Suffer little children to come to Me, He said -- His hair, his brows drip red.
Hurrying through Jerusalem on business or pleasure People hardly pause to see Him go to His death Whom they held five days ago more than a King's treasure, Shouting Hosannas, flinging many a wreath For this Jesus of Nazareth.