The Seven Last Words of Christ
THE SEVEN LAST WORDS OF CHRIST is a ground breaking new album, encompassing so many aspects of what Ruth does.
It is a fully orchestrated work, for spoken voice, solo violin and symphony orchestra. The nine poems by Gary Wiens, tell the story of
the crucifixion through the eyes of John, the beloved apostle, and possibly Jesus' closest friend while He was on earth. The music, composed by Ruth, and played by the orchestra, underscores the mood of the poems, portraying the anguish and the agony of the final hours of Jesus' life, culminating in the joyous celebration of the resurrection. Moments of sweet passion alternate with the awful tension, both in the words and in the music, making this an experience to enter into. As Ruth responds spontaneously on the violin while Gary reads and the orchestra plays, this truly is a most powerful piece.
Also available A Study Guide companion booklet to 'The Seven Last Words of Christ'. A creative meditation on the Cross. This is an ideal way to enter into the drama of the piece, and go more deeply into the reality of what Jesus accomplished on the Cross. Ideal for small groups to study together.
Click on titles to hear sample audio track
Recording in Toronto. 2002
US$16.00* (plus shipping US$2.00)
US$3.50* (plus shipping US$2.00)
Before Your feet, O Lamb of God, I take my place.
I breathe Your Name
as tears in silent eloquence declare my thanks.
Your shattered visage announces healing for this broken image,
Thunders Your passion, avows Your love.
O, ceaseless wonder!
Unending cause of joy and gladness
that yet subdues me, stunning my heart in contemplation of Your mercy.
You gave yourself in sober joy;
With face like flint you strode the path of crushing love.
Bruised beyond all recognition, You wore the thorny crown,
And dipped the blood that washes me - it washes me.
Before Your feet, O Worthy One, I find my rest.
Your cloven side my hiding place, the shelt'ring Rock
in which no accusation finds its mark.
I come to peace through Your own work that bought my life.
O matchless grace!
Empowering flow of mingling tears and blood
that covers - nay, it carries all my sin and stain away.
The ceaseless flood that, once begun, can never end,
now surges through my heart and mind, and cleansing deeply,
brings the life for which I've longed and prayed,
the life to which You drew me from the start
Before Your gaze, O Splendid Lord, I find my love.
Your eyes bore deep within my secret heart,
and speak my name.
And as Your voice declares my true design,
I feel the rush of power inside to know the Truth,
to stand as free.
O, wondrous myst'ry!
The ecstasy of being fully known and fully loved,
releasing all the fear and pain. And now I dare to trust again,
and take the risky steps of dancing
on the mountaintops with You.
I take Your hand,
for You have stretched it out for me upon the cross.
How could I keep from foll'wing You,
Who are my joy, my very Life.
Your precious love has won the day,
and drawn me near.
Luke 23:34
What have they done?
They've taken You,
O Jesus, Friend, and ruined You
Whose lovely visage is the crowning joy of all that is,
Whose passioned song is light and life
to all who walk upon this plane.
Did they not know?
Did they not see that You were He of Whom the prophets spoke?
Did they not hear the words of life,
or see the winsome way you touched the weak?
You moved among them,
daily lifting broken people to the Father's heart,
declaring truths that freed th' enslavened soul to walk in joy.
Did they not see? Did they not know?
What have they done?
What have we done?
We did not see,
O Jesus, Friend, the sorrow in Your blazing eyes
as words of strife and selfish pride poured from our lips just yesterday.
"Which one's the greatest?" was our cry,
as foll'wing Your toward Olive's Mount
we argued for position even as You strode in silence
toward the place of exaltation none of us would dare desire.
You asked if we could drink Your cup,
and in our swaggering ignorance we claimed we could.
My God! What hubris, what profane conceit!
Did we not see? Did we not know?
What have we done? What have I done?
This darksome day,
O Jesus, Friend, I stand before Your cross in guilty shame
and own the stain of human sin,
and echo Judas' cloying cry - "Am I the one?"
I am not innocent,
but stand as one with those who rent the flesh,
and tore the beard, and drove the nails,
and mocked the Name.
I am the one who put You there, the Lover of my soul.
O, matchless Friend! O, Son of God!
I weep in anguish as I see what foolish eyes can ne'er behold -
the King of Glory dies for me.
Did I not see?
Did I not know?
What have I done?
With anguished groan
You lift Your sacred head
and fix Your gaze on me, before Your feet.
The tears of ardent love roll down Your face
as sin's dead weight begins to steal Your breath
I scarce can look,
but something reaching down to me
from deep inside Your riven breast
Commands my eyes to gaze on You,
to lock with Yours
As mighty words pour forth to me alone,
and then to all who dare to hear:
Father, forgive them. They know no what they do.
Luke 23:43
See how He hangs there.
Impossible pain screaming from His shredded flesh
as splintered spar abrades the ruined body
that bore my head upon its breast mere hours ago.
My heart explodes,
my mind is rattled,
as though some giant hand has stretched from heaven
and shaken the soul,
the very core of what is good and true.
Why do they shout?
Why do they mock with vicious words from hate-filled hearts?
What makes them strike Him,
Whose hand was never raised except to bless?
I want to stop them,
but I am paralyzed and impotent,
transfixed in horror,
able only to stand and watch as demon'd hordes swarm and swirl,
hellish eyes glaring at that lovely face,
the face of God made flesh,
now spoiled and ploughed by Satan's rage.
My gaze is drawn away,
just for a moment,
as a single voice seems to stand above the crowd,
and angry, anguished accusations spew from one who hangs on
neighb'ring tree.
"Aren't you the Christ?
Then show yourself!
Do something big!
Come down from there, and take us with you!"
But bitterness and scorn comprise th' aroma of this cry, not faith.
It seems a venting,
one last defiant gesture from a life a-wasted,
flung in blatant disregard
of the One Whose merest word has set so many free.
My focus shifts once more to Jesus' eyes.
I watch aghast as He allows
the hateful words to pierce His heart,
and makes no move to fend them off.
His gaze affixed on robber's face,
His mournful tears flow unrestrained
as He extends embracing arm,
one geld in place - it surely seems -
by something more than just a Roman nail.
The clangorous sound of angry cry
awakens him who hangs on opposite side.
The movement of his head attracts my gaze
as through his pain he forms his thoughts.
He speaks with eerie calm,
as though a grace has touched his lips:
"Do you not fear the One to Whom you speak?
We are the dead; He alone deserves to live.
We stole and ran,
grasping to ourselves the stuff we hoped would give us life.
He clung to nothing,
gave His very self,
poured out in joyful sacrifice to all who asked.
"O Lord, remember me," he pleads,
"that in Your Kingdom my name may be declared."
The eyes of Jesus shift toward him,
and glance at me along the way.
My God! He's smiling,
tho' the tortured grimace would not be understood
by one who knew Him less than I.
And in that glance my eyes are graced to see beyond the present day,
And I behold with staggered heart a throng,
a host of people now aligned
behind this thief,
whose last-ditch plea has flung the Door of Heaven wide,
and called them all to enter in,
the no-hope Bride who at the last did find her Way.
I fall in worship
as the seemingly conquered, conquering King smiles now
through horrid pain.
His longing hear,
about to burst with cleansing stream,
Rejoices now that this one heart has heard His call,
agreeing with the Father's voice.
With sorrow'd joy a-flowing down,
with groaning words and heaving sighs,
He breathes response that sets the captives free:
Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise.
John 19:26-27
Your shattered form has held my eyes in gaping stare,
as standing here I wait.
There's nothing else to do or say,
no potions left except to look upon your ravaged frame.
The weight of glory forces me to look away,
and yet - it can't be helped! - I must again return my gaze
to see the shining forth of ancient Word,
made flesh so this eternal day could bring forth grace.
The movement by my side reminds me
that another heart is bleeding out this day.
The Word she pondered in a heart so deep and still
when she herself was but a child
now hangs before her eyes in such a state she ne'er conceived.
She shudders at the shock of seeing horror taking form
in such a personal, familiar way.
And so I draw her near,
this frail pillar,
bearing weight beyond proportion
as the Mother of the Son of God.
I feel the gripping power of His gaze
and suddenly know
He has regarded me from endless ages,
choosing me,
considering my life for just a day as this.
Can it be so?
I know not how.
But as my eyes are fixed again on piercing stare from Burning Heart.
His ravaged lips begin to speak,
and something like the hand of God invades my chest
to grip my heart and lift me up to other realms,
to place of privilege the depth of which I do not nearly comprehend.
Woman, behold your son. And John, behold your mother.
O My God,
What is this explosion in my breast?
This searing and rending verity
distending the limits of my soul,
shattering the boundaries of my affections,
inserting,
with no regard for human choice or natural fondness,
this one into my heart
whose faith exceeds by far that of the saints of old.
Who is she?
Who am I?
What have You done?
And once again my eyes are opened,
my being taken into His,
and I see with eyes as though mine own
These two, before His feet,
once again saying 'yes' to words they cannot comprehend.
And in her place I see the train of those who hear Your Word
and stand in dazzling darkness, contemplating,
nurturing the seed of God implanted deep with the womb of faith.
She is Eve, and Sarah, and Hannah all brought to fullness,
the exemplar for all those yet to come who gaze on You,
receiving kisses from Your mouth,
and bringing forth the Word made flesh,
that it might walk again the streets of earth,
Your Kingdom come.
And here You place me, O my Lord,
a watchman for the Marys,
one to carry them in my heart,
a friend and father,
advocate protector,
to see with Your own eyes their virgin hearts,
and guard them well.
I feel within the fierce Defender,
the jealous Lover
Who'll not allow His Glory,
His Bride to be dissuaded from His love,
His ardent love.
And I say
Yes, I will behold Her,
and hear Your Word
and speak Your truth,
and call Her forth to stand in grace,
in ever-growing knowledge of the love
that burns with passion undiluted in the Heart of Christ,
The Word,
the Son,
the Bridegroom King.
Mark 15:34
The dark,
the interminable day plods on,
imperceptibly passing before my eyes in ceaseless horror.
I cannot look away,
though all my mind and soul recoils at what I see:
This nightmarish spectre,
this abomination that once I called my dearest Friend.
O Jesus Christ,
how can it be that thoughts like these course through my mind,
for it is You, the One Who is the same and never changes,
Who now is bound to torturous tree.
what horrid alteration does eye behold,
that dares to glance upon that frame?
For now there comes a darkening thing,
a presence grim,
that steals upon Your bruised face,
and I am loathe to take it in.
My eyes avert,
deflected now by hell's own power
as something old and harsh,
a wasting darkness devoid of light
begins to crawl o'er visage torn.
What is this thing?
I've known You well these tree short years,
and never have I seen despair like this -
such anguish,
such eclipse in eyes that ever shone with God's own Light.
I sense a terror rising in my soul as murky wave assaults Your form
How can this be?
From where may come this daring, hellish cloud]
that moves to twist the face I love -
O tender Lord!
- into a mask of craven fear.
O Mighty God!
Why strike You now this crushing blow upon the One Who is Your Son?
I cannot bear to see what now is so,
for until now,
e'en tho' the pain of silvered bar weighed full upon His slitted back,
could still be seen Your gracious hand
Upholding and sustaining Him from deep within.
But now it is not so!
I scarce can think,
for in His eyes the Light grows dim,
and terror takes the place of peace,
as though a damned darkness wrests His soul from Your own hand.
It cannot be! This is not so!
Surely I dream a tortured dream
and soon will wake to find my Lord beside my bed
to calm the fear and speak the Word of peace and hope.
But now this cursed trance is shattered by an anguished sound
that seems to come from on that tree,
And deep within I know the ghastly truth that, far from dream,
this day is all too real.
A shaking grips my feeble frame,
as though the earth itself is being crushed by God's own wrath.
An energy rips through His shell,
arising not from gracious strength, but fear itself,
As wounded, sacred head is wrenched around from side to side,
and flesh convulses.
With pow'r not borne of joy, I see His eyes distend,
and lips prepare to loose a scream transcending human pain,
one reaching through the span of time and space
Encapsulating every anguished cry that has e'er escaped from desolate heart:
My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?
My God, what have You done?
John 19:28
How long, O Lord, did howling dark encrust and cloak Your brow,
and wasting murk hold sway in empty eyes?
The moment seemed eternal here, from where I stand,
before Your feet.
No part of me could ev'n begin to grasp what happened here,
to comprehend the depth of wretched anguish You endured,
the miry pit to which the hand of God abandoned You.
Lord Jesus Christ, I cannot see, I cannot tell
the merest part of what this day on earth has wrought.
I only know the silent scream inside my heart,
the raging grief that grips me now
at what my race has done.
I drop my gaze as tears fall fresh upon the ground
already wet with sorrow's pain.
Have mercy, O my God, on me.
But now, I hear Your injured groan as once again You stir
in grim attempt to raise Your head.
The rasping, grating sound that comes from You
is barely heard, through silence shrouds this holy hill:
I thirst.
The craving words provoke response, and someone offers You the sour wine.
And as You wet Your lips on hyssop's branch,
an aching truth begins to dawn within my heart,
as tender words from better days are drawn across my mind.
I feel dismay as puzzling joy begins to well inside my breast.
How can this be?
I am confused, but something, Someone calls my heart awake
to see the Truth that now pours out from riven side
of my Beloved.
The Living Water, You proclaimed, would flow from deep within
the one who dared to drink from You.
You spoke of Rock that Moses struck,
and fiery stream that Daniel saw come coursing down from Ancient Throne.
The Stream that gladdened City's heart,
the Jordan that cleansed the leper's stain,
the River Ezekiel could not cross,
the fresh'ning Flow that greens the leaf in midst of drought -
all these were pictures of Your life poured out that men might live.
The stirring pool of Bethesda's porch,
The washing font at Temple's door-
O precious Friend - the Wine with which You filled the cup.
My Lord! It's You! I fall in wonder, worshipping, before Your feet.
And now, O God, ev'n as I see the wondrous gift of Mercy's flow,
I feel the aching, tender surge of grateful heart
as I behold Your life poured our for me again
as I behold and bless the One from Whom all blessings flow,
the Fountainhead, now spent and thirsty on the tree
that I might drink and live.
John 19:30
I stand in anguished stupor now as here, before Your feet,
my heart is filled with coercive fear.
Silent, patent hatred and stark confusion comprise the order of the day,
and dismal darkness, descended despite the cloudless day,
increases now.
You said that in Your life was Light of men,
but now that life drips at my feet, and now You die,
and darkness reigns.
Beneath my arm, the shiv'ring form still stands.
My Mother now - my God, what is this love inside my breast? -
I cannot bear her silent grief.
Why is her soul cast down, her hear disquieted in anguished oppression,
calling on the One Who hears,
and yet Who seems on this dread day not to care to listen?
She softly sobs, waging the violent war of chosen trust
In the Father of the Living Word struck silent here.
O lovely Lord, You stir again and lift Your head
to stare upon the world with vacant eyes,
no longer seeing, it seems, this wasted hill,
but gazing instead on other realms, unknown to any mind,
save Yours alone.
What do You see, O precious Lamb,
Whose Name was called the world's own Light?
I search Your face, but nothing shines,
Your countenance now ruined, Your form now shattered.
And now, as though with horror fresh, I watch Your eyes grow wide,
Your face contorting with anguish new as some late loathing
strikes Your heart.
I cannot bear the terror here,
the crazed confusion as wave upon relentless wave of panic
strikes my heart at evidence of Your dismay.
And yet despite my fear, I cannot turn,
but only stand before Your feet to wait in tortured grief
for Your demise.
And then, as with uncanny strength,
You draw a breath that seems to capture Death itself,
and darkness grim begins to yield before Your dying and forsaken form.
What do Your see?
Is some new understanding flowing back into Your mind
as darksome fear begins to flee Your stricken face?
Does comprehension of a plan once stolen from Your heart
because of pain
now loose Your joy again?
What do I see here? Is blackness bowing even as Your life flows out?
What is this thing that I behold?
The sun, eclipsed, in horrid night, begins to glance at me again
tho' shadowed still by rugged tree,
and in that moment comes a cry that shatters gates on hell itself,
and something older,
something stronger than devil's plan asserts its will
through tortured voice of God's own Son:
It is finished!
My soul is shaken at the sound,
for in the midst of crushing loss I feel absurd and foolish things,
that whatever it was that You call done,
'tis not Your life that's over now,
regardless of the things our eyes will see.
There's something more, a dawning day that now will come,
despite the things our eyes will see.
There's something more.
A dawning.
Something more.
Luke 23:46
I cannot still my trembling flesh,
for shatt'ring cry of finished work now grips my soul,
untenable gladness erupting from places in the heart that
moments ago
knew only sorrow's groan.
What is this certain thing that asserts its will
even as all external signs and rational thought demand despair?
Something within, some One within, whispers a startling joy,
and terror'd heart begins its quieting.
You move again, and now I see the calm repose upon Your face
that pushes through the battered visage of murdered flesh and speaks of settled trust and adamant hope.
Your eyes, no longer dark, are lifted now,
and something certain, something true asserts its Presence,
and once again I stand in solid place, my feet upon the Rock.
And then You speak, and momentary reverie is shattered once again
as words not bargained for escape Your lips:
Father, into Your hands I commend my Spirit.
And having said this, You breathe Your last.
I watch You die.
Wait! My heart explodes. This cannot be! My head is spinning.
You cannot die! Not now! You said 'twas done!
My God, what now is this? How is this so?
What has happened now to hopeful sense, to silenced heart
that felt Your own repose?
How can this be?
Your mother screams.
I catch her as her limbs collapse,
as sudden, horrid grief engulfs her soul,
and my protecting arm becomes a useless thing,
no power within to cover her, to hold her hear in guarded place.
I fall with her to bloody ground, my eyes affixed to lifeless face
that, staring down, has fixed on me.
My God. What now?
Nothing.
Silence. The Word is dead.
The morning came,
and once again I find myself before Your feet.
Your eyes, alive with fire I've never seen, are fixed on me again,
and I know.
Such raw and ragged terror was our lot through yesterday.
We'd watched as soldiers came and pierced Your side,
and watery blood came pouring out;
as Joseph came and took Your corpse,
and let Your mother hold You there, aggrieved, for one last time.
We wrapped Your form in swaddling cloths,
and as I washed Your ravaged face, the only thing my eyes could see
was that last gaze, know that as You died, Your eyes saw me.
Our shattered hearts, uncomprehending, broke again
as one by one we filtered through the door of Upper Room.
We weren't prepared for what we saw,
the cup poured out and remnant bread still sat upon the board,
and grief afresh assailed our souls.
We wept, and held each other near, and told the stories
of Your love that changed our lives.
We prayed together through the nights,
the endless nights,
hardly knowing what to say - no words to say.
And then the morning came.
And Mary left to bring the fragrant oils to Your side,
and came exploding back with news that wounded hearts could scarcely take.
She said You spoke her name, and when You did,
the fire of passioned love erupted fresh from aching core,
and all was right.
I took off running, madly racing toward my only hope,
with Peter hounding hard upon my heels.
You were no there. Of course we knew,
now in the morning's light, that death could never hold the Life,
that darkness could not comprehend the Light that shined.
The Word made flesh, filled with Father's grace and truth,
alive again.
I'd turned to go, and there You stood,
and took my hand, and called my name, and drew me near.
Your beating heart against my cheek released the tears,
as once again I took my place the one You love,
inside Your heart.
And so the morning came, and once again I find myself before Your feet.
Your eyes alive with fire I've never seen, are fixed on me again,
and now I know.
I know.
Poems © Gary Wiens 2000/2002
Recording © RuthFazal 2002 SOCAN. All rights reserved. International copyrights secured.
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