>> i have a poem published on good friday at the grotto network, run by the university of notre dame in indiana. my sweet boy, the fruit of my vine, how could i have known when i was told a sword would pierce this heart of mine. in your moments of woe and despair, was there. your blood, sweat and tear in the garden in the dark night reminded me of a time i bled and sweat for you on a starlight. sorriful history how this became a history. your oaks of young mother's wales. for love, i would willingly suffer. to watch you, that is far tougher. the king of the jews, they said, and they placed a crown of thorns upon your head. the first crown you wore was the flesh of my wound and baby arriving at an inn with no room. i remember when i first carried you, you wrapped your hand around my finger. my greatest. >> and my greatest sorrow, too, as you carry the cross up to a hilly plane, i longed to hold you in my arms against. naked but for a piece of cloth on a piece of wood. and i -- you would make it on a piece of wood on a friday. they later called good. my sweet boy, your blood turned to