by Mariana Herrera Mosli
Gérôme, Jean-León. Jerusalem. 1867. Oil on canvas. 82 × 144.5 cm (32 × 56.9 in). Musée d'Orsay, Paris.
SCAR TO SCAR, ROOT TO ROOT
“It sends out its roots by the stream.” -Jeremiah 17:8
I wonder if the thief heard Jeremiah once.
As a boy, before Rome made a spectacle
of his body, before hunger, or anger,
taught his hands to take,
did his grandmother pull him between her knees,
smooth the hair from his forehead,
place bread in his palm,
and tell him about the tree—
Blessed is the one who trusts in the Lord.
The tree, always growing
in two directions.
What reaches for heaven
must first learn the dark.
Years later,
three trees stand on a hill.
Nothing green about Golgotha.
Timber.
Dust.
Iron.
Men in armor throw lots
for a dying man’s wool.
Men with wide phylacteries
and long tassels watch from below.
And the thief turns his face
toward the dying man in the middle.
Underground, a seed has
no witness to the breaking.
The radicle does not rise.
It turns from light,
presses its pale body deeper into darkness,
searching for water
it has never seen.
Nothing regal about the man beside the thief.
A face swollen from fists.
Crimson drying against skin.
Thorns where gold should have been.
Above Him,
KING.
As if Rome had written the cruelty
large enough for heaven to read.
Save yourself.
The thief heard the commands
between his own failing breaths.
Save us.
No army climbing the hill.
No angels loosening nails.
Blessed is the one who trusts in the Lord.
Roots toward streams.
Green through drought.
Fruit when the earth forgets rain.
The thief’s hands were open now.
Iron made sure of it.
Hands that could no longer take.
Could no longer return
what they had taken.
Nothing left to offer.
Below him,
earth.
Beside him,
a man,
bread,
water,
vine.
Jesus, remember me.
And somewhere beneath Golgotha,
earth opened.
Root pressed down
past dust,
past timber,
past iron,
past every visible reason
there should be water here.
It did not know the river.
Only thirst.
Living water turned His face and their eyes met.
Today.
With me.
Paradise.
I wonder if his first breath sounded like a promise kept.
Whether the man opened his eyes
and felt earth beneath his feet
before he heard the river
moving under it.
Whether trees rose around him,
branches bowed
with figs,
their roots drinking
from somewhere he could not see.
His hands—
his hands—
whole again.
Did he kneel?
Lower them into the river?
Watch water gather
where iron had been?
Perhaps for a moment
bread was warm
between his fingers,
his grandmother’s hands over his,
her voice somewhere
among the leaves—
Blessed is the one who trusts—
The Lord walking toward him.
Roots breaking earth
between them,
threading stone,
finding one another
in the dark.
He looked at his King’s hands.
Scar to scar.
Root to Root.
Above them,
branches heavy with olives.
Beneath them,
the river
still moving.
MARIANA HERRERA MOSLI
Mariana Herrera Mosli is a Cuban-American poet, writer, and theologian whose work explores the intersections of faith, literature, and the human experience. She holds a BA in English Literature from the University of South Florida and is pursuing an MA in Theology at Northern Seminary, where her research explores relational hermeneutics and encounters across difference. She is the creator of Meet At The Well, a space for storytelling, theological reflection, and conversations that break barriers, not people. Her debut poetry collection, Thorns and Honey, is forthcoming from The Way Back Books in Spring 2027.