THE THIEF'S MOTHER

I nearly didn't come today. I washed my hands of him long ago my wayward, out of control son.

Don't think I didn't try to steer him along the right path, I did, I tried everything. But it seemed the more I tried the worse the company he kept. He got in with a bad crowd, just out for trouble.

When I say I washed my hands of him, I never stopped praying. Every day I begged God to turn him around and bring him back to me.

All my efforts ended in this. There he is hanging on a cross next to two other criminals and not one of his so called friends in sight. Although to be fair, I'm hanging back too. It pains me to say it, but I'm ashamed, I don't want to be seen with him. Like I said, I nearly didn't come at all.

There's only the one in the middle who's got anyone with him. There's a woman right next to the cross, who I assume is his mother, another two women slightly further away, all three weeping, and a young man trying his best to be strong.

As I watch, the prisoner summons all his strength and speaks to his mother. I edge forward so I can hear, “This is your son,” and to the young man, “this is your mother.”

And it comes over me. My son has a mother too and yet he hangs there alone. I rush to him hoping I'm not too late, stroke his poor wounded feet.

He opens his eyes just for a moment. “I'm sorry mum,” he says, “for everything. I'm so pleased you've come. Don't worry, it's all going to be alright, I'm off to paradise.”