Now is not the time to write, rather to weep. Jesus is dead to give us life. All creatures are mourning. The sun is darkened. The earth quakes. The rocks are rent. The veil of the temple is torn. Only my heart remains harder than flint. I will say no more. Join the poor mother of the dead Jesus as her companion. Ask the dear Magdalene and John where their hearts are. Let the sea of their pains flood within you. I end at the foot of the Cross.
Saint Paul of the Cross
Contemplative in the Mud 