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Feminine Christ Consciousness
April 20, 2014

"The Love of Mary Magdalene" ~ Robert Stang



Mary Magdalene Original with Gold Frame - Lily Moses Spirit Art
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Verily, I say unto you. The love of Mary Magdalene is sweeter than honey, Stronger than all the prophets.

After the supper with soul friends, My torn heart knew the morrow would be grim, So I went to see her.

She held me,
Rocked me before I went to pray,
Walked my soul to still waters.

She helped me reach the garden,
Face my Father without fearing fate.

I told her what would happen,
Not to twitch, allow her heart to carry her.

Know that I'd say no to death's ice grip, return whole.

Tear free, she nodded, smiled, ran fingers through my hair.

I remember the tiny hum of her kiss on my forehead
As I hover over my body, lying flat, linen wrapped, cold, face up
Entombed, alone.

Except for Archangels Michael, Gabriel, Raphael, Uriel,
Each attuned, head down and quiet in his corner.

All four allow me to be alone, to hover in stillness, look down at my body,
Savor that stone still silence disembodied respite.

Faint vibrations pulsed her footfalls singing stones in a brook.

Closer she came.

Archangels understood why.
Together they moved the rock seal Joseph of Arimathea provided.
Into the tomb she stepped, stood at my feet.
Whispered "Rabboni."

Raised her hand, palms facing my shroud.

Golden light flowed from her fingertips, surrounded my body.

Her eyes closed, she spoke to my Spirit.

"It is meet that you return whole."

When that golden light had seeped into my every cell, she lowered her arms,
Unwrapped, folded the shroud, reached down for alabaster jar
Filled with oil of myrrh, raised it over her head,
Lowered the jar, poured oil into her palm, rubbed hands together.

Held them, palms up, radiating golden rays,
Reaching my Spirit still hovering above my naked body.

She touched my toes. I did not feel her touch.

Only saw her place one hand above my wounded foot, the other beneath.

I saw wounded flesh transform between her hands, leaving only slight scars.

Then the other foot.

She rubbed each toe gently, sacramentally.

Like a sculptor, her oiled fingertips touched my skin.

Filled every pore with shimmering light.

She touched my ankles next, then calves, slowly, sweetly singing
"Rabboni, come home."

I saw but did not feel. I missed her touch.
When her hand touched my thighs, I knew I needed to feel her fingers

Though I was not yet ready to come back.
So I slipped my Spirit into body. Did not awaken lungs or heart,
Only felt her fingers and the tingle of golden rays.

When she reached my waist, she slipped one hand under,
The other atop my spear wound.

I felt that healing energy penetrate, sing to my cells.

She healed the wounds on my hands.

When her fingers touched my heart, it wanted to beat,
But still I was not ready.

She knew that. She was so calm. Her hands a blessing of peace.

The Archangels sensed her Spirit breaths.

Her hands on my jaw, fingers caressing my ears,
My heart and lungs still sleeping like bulbs in early Spring soil.

When she touched that spot on my forehead above and between my brow's
Spirit Gate of the sages, in timeless flash there was a quickening.

It was time to be whole again.

I felt my heart's first tick, drew a breath,
Opened my eyes, looked into hers,
Saw that smile, let loose a tear.

She took my hands, kissed them.

Stood silently watching over me like the Archangels,
Then said "Welcome, Rabboni."

She covered me with her warmth-giving mantle.

When she sensed my strength had returned, still holding hands,
She kissed that spot on my forehead,
Spoke, "Rabboni, I go now to tell your Mother."

Robert Stang's breathtaking poem from 1996