POPE FRANCIS’S FINAL 24 HOURS

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I imagine our dear Pope Francis’ last 24 hours, between his simple room at Casa Martha, his meeting with J. D. Vance, the Urbi et Orbi blessing, and his last stroll through St. Peter’s Square. Pope Francis, frail but with a steady gaze, looks out at the fading light of his life.

Hour 1: "Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do."

"Even now, as the shadows lengthen, I see the faces of those who misunderstand, who judge with hardened hearts. J.D. Vance, his questions sharp, his eyes reflecting a world so different from the one I've tried to build. Father, forgive them. Forgive the fear that blinds them, the walls they erect against the stranger, the poor, the very earth that sustains us. They do not see the interconnectedness, the fragility of our shared humanity. They do not understand that to wound the least among us is to wound Christ himself. Forgive their blindness, their fear, and open their hearts to the gentle revolution of tenderness."

A pause, a deep breath. A memory flickers: the faces of refugees, the ravaged landscapes of exploited lands, the silent suffering of the marginalised.

Hour 6: "Today shalt thou be with me in paradise."

"Paradise is not a distant reward, but a present reality, a seed planted in the heart of every act of compassion, every gesture of solidarity. I have seen paradise in the eyes of the children in the camps, in the hands of the volunteers who bring aid, in the quiet dignity of those who refuse to be broken. Today, in the midst of suffering, in the heart of the storm, paradise blooms. It is the embrace of community, the shared burden, the knowledge that we are never truly alone. And I will find that paradise again, in the company of those whose lives have been a testament to love."

The light dims further. A sense of weariness, but also a profound peace.

Hour 12: "Woman, behold, thy son!"

"Mary, Mother of all, you who held your own son as he suffered, you who know the pain of loss and the strength of enduring love, behold your children. Behold the world, torn and wounded, crying out for solace. Behold the mothers who weep for their lost children, the families shattered by violence, the earth groaning under the weight of our sins. Woman, behold, thy son! May your gentle presence bring comfort, may your strength inspire courage, may your love bind us together as one family."

He looks towards the window, the lights twinkling like distant stars. The sounds of the Urbi et Orbi blessing and the enthusiasm of the congregation, echo faintly in his heart.

Hour 18: "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?"

"In the face of overwhelming suffering, in the depths of despair, even the strongest spirit can falter. My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? There have been moments, in the face of indifference, in the shadow of war, when the weight of the world felt unbearable. Yet, even in that darkness, your hope remains. The cry is not one of abandonment, but of a desperate plea for connection, a yearning for the divine presence. Even in the silence, God is there."

He closes his eyes, a tremor passing through him. The memory of his last journey through St. Peter's Square, the faces radiating the love of the faithful, the silent prayers.

Hour 20: "I thirst."

"I thirst for justice, for peace, for a world where the cries of the poor are heard, where the earth is cherished, where the stranger is welcomed. I thirst for a Church that is a field hospital, a refuge for the wounded, a beacon of hope in a world shrouded in darkness. I thirst for a world where the waters of compassion flow freely, quenching the parched lands of hatred and division. I thirst for the living water that only God can provide."

A gentle sigh. The room grows darker. The final moments approach.

Hour 23: "It is finished."

"The journey, the struggle, the striving for a more just and compassionate world… it is finished. Not finished in the sense of ending, but in the sense of completion, of surrendering to the divine will. The seeds have been sown, the message carried. Now, it is for others to nurture the growth, to carry the torch forward. The work of love is never truly finished; it continues in the hearts of those who embrace it."

A final, deep breath. The last rays of twilight fade. A sense of profound peace settles over the room.

Hour 24: "Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit."

"The darkness deepens, the veil thins. Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit. Not with fear, but with trust. Not with regret, but with gratitude. For the gift of life, for the opportunity to serve, for the love that has sustained me. May my passing be a reminder that even in death, love endures, hope remains, and the spirit returns to its source, to the embrace of the Divine."

Silence. The room is filled with a sense of quiet transcendence.