Apr 1, 2017
Via Crucis — La Señal de la Cruz
Somehow Christ’s cross has followed me all my life. From seeing my grandmother pray with her rosary, to having been under the influence of the Brothers of Holy Cross for five years, that cross has always been in my memory. My mentor Brother Edwin Reggio, C.S.C.’s last initials, in fact mean congregation of holy cross in Latin.
Cristo En La Cruz (Translation into English follows)
Jorge Luis Borges
Cristo en la cruz. Los pies tocan la tierra.
Los tres maderos son de igual altura.
Cristo no está en el medio. Es el tercero.
La negra barba pende sobre el pecho.
El rostro no es el rostro de las láminas.
Es áspero y judío. No lo veo
y seguiré buscándolo hasta el día
último de mis pasos por la tierra.
El hombre quebrantado sufre y calla.
La corona de espinas lo lastima.
No lo alcanza la befa de la plebe
que ha visto su agonía tantas veces.
La suya o la de otro. Da lo mismo.
Cristo en la cruz. Desordenadamente
piensa en el reino que tal vez lo espera,
piensa en una mujer que no fue suya.
No le está dado ver la teología,
la indescifrable Trinidad, los gnósticos,
las catedrales, la navaja de Occam,
la púrpura, la mitra, la liturgia,
la conversión de Guthrum por la espada,
la inquisición, la sangre de los mártires,
las atroces Cruzadas, Juana de Arco,
el Vaticano que bendice ejércitos.
Sabe que no es un dios y que es un hombre
que muere con el día. No le importa.
Le importa el duro hierro con los clavos.
No es un romano. No es un griego. Gime.
Nos ha dejado espléndidas metáforas
y una doctrina del perdón que puede
anular el pasado. (Esa sentencia
la escribió un irlandés en una cárcel.)
El alma busca el fin, apresurada.
Ha oscurecido un poco. Ya se ha muerto.
Anda una mosca por la carne quieta.
¿De qué puede servirme que aquel hombre
haya sufrido, si yo sufro ahora?
Christ on the Cross
Jorge Luis Borges
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Christ on the cross. The feet touch solid earth.
The three beams made of wood are the same height.
Christ is not in the middle. He’s the third.
The black beard hangs down heavy over his chest.
His face is not the face from the engravings.
It’s harsh and Jewish. I do not see him
And will keep questing for him till the final
Day of my steps falling upon this earth.
The broken man is suffering and silent.
The cutting crown of thorns is hurting him.
He’s unreached by the jeering of the mob
Which has so often seen his agonies.
His or another’s. It is the same thing.
Christ on the cross. Confusedly he thinks
About the kingdom that perhaps awaits him,
About the woman that was never his.
It’s not for him to see Theology,
The indecipherable Trinity,
The Gnostics, the cathedrals, Occam’s razor,
The purple, the mitre, the liturgy,
Guthrum’s conversion by the sword of Alfred,
The Inquisition hallowed, blood of martyrs,
Crusade atrocities, young Joan of Arc
Afire, the Vatican that blesses armies.
He knows he is no god and is a man
That dies with day. To him it is no matter.
What matters is the nails’ hard piercing iron.
He’s not a Roman. Not a Greek. He moans.
He has left us some splendid metaphors
And a doctrine of pardon with the power
To cancel out the past. (This is a dictum
Written down by an Irishman in gaol.)
The soul seeks for the end, frenetically.
It has grown dark a bit. Now he is dead.
A fly walks up across the flesh in quiet.
What good does it all do me that that man
Has suffered so, when I am suffering now?
Originally published at blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com.
