Christ of the Church of the Calvary of Pamplona (Cristo del Humilladero de Pamplona)

People from Cúcuta (my home town) traditionally travel in Easter Sunday to the nearby municipality of Pamplona, to pray at the Church of the Calvary (La Iglesia del Humilladero de Pamplona).  Up on the hill where the church is you could see the entire town.  I keep fond memories of Mum and Dad taking me there for a day trip.  I also remember always getting car-sick on the way back but Dad’s ‘magic’ watch would always cure me, as long as I kept it on my tummy for the duration of the one hour commute.  I wish I had my Dad’s watch, so I wouldn’t get sick on road trips these days.  From my Dad’s book The celebrated afternoon (La tarde festejada). 

Christ of the Church of the Calvary of Pamplona (Cristo del Humilladero de Pamplona)

In the gray fog

that blurs the sacred city

surges the hill

softly raised,

home of a weary Jesus.

Upstairs, above the atrium,

a tall door, resonant bell tower,

a votive light,

vivid, in front of the of the cibary,

is my beloved Christ’s sanctuary.

Beneath these white towers

the centuries have passed.  The memory

fades in the honest

darkness in history,

and history and legend are its glory.

And about the hanging Cross

the ivory-like hoisted Christ

says with moaning voice

– pallid, stunned –

 Father, why have you abandoned me?

I came to you with the first light of dawn

that penetrates the shadows where you wait

for my early rising voice,

Oh!  The first roses

that bloom with your daily springs!

I have come from afar

(from my backyard of sun and wind and breeze);

your open wounds like mirrors

reproduce my

humble sorrow that your arm fraternises.

I put my existence

in the healing light of your injury

wiser than science,

and in you, who are the Life

that invites my Death to its hideout,

my afflictions of a man

in perpetual battle;

the beautiful futile days without name,

silent sorrows

and the remaining bitterness of my pleasures.

I set vanities aside

so you can hear my pure word,

and in secret

you will hear truths of the bitterness

of a man walking in the dark night.

I would not stop talking to you

for endless days, servile at your feet

and unable to love you,

like a lost lamb

I would not want to hear even your whistle.

From you, I would run away,

and, although my being holds onto your mercy,

fugitive I would hide underground

the affliction that the heart keeps.

And towards the shady night

of my tired years

to you I would climb

crawling – steps and stairs –

offering of my disappointments!

Then the ashes,

under your omniscience transformed,

I would lift myself without hurry

freed from my own being

forgiven by your compassion!

Pamplona 1986