The wait for Pope Francis’ funeral has paralyzed Rome. A silent and moved crowd is preparing to say goodbye to the most beloved pontiff of recent decades.
( Hole from satellite)
St. Peter, the seal. The plain coffin.
Cardinal Kevin Joseph Farrell, Camerlengo of Holy Roman Church, presided over the rite of the closing of the coffin of Roman Pontiff Francis, according to the Ordo Exsequiarum Romani Pontificis. In the Pope’s coffin was placed a bag with coins minted on the occasion of his pontificate and a metal tube, the rogito, where the most important events of his pontificate are recounted. The Pope’s face was covered with a veil.
Funeral on Saturday, with leaders from around the world for the obsequies, starting at 10 a.m.
A silence that speaks more than a thousand words
Rome woke up in silence. Not the empty one, but the dense, charged one that one breathes in the great expectations. The eternal city today stands still for Pope Francis. For days, thousands have lined up for one last look, one last thank you. And today, the day of the funeral, the emotion is palpable.
St. Peter’s Basilica lit by candles, faces, faith.
In the night, faithful from all over the world gathered in front of the basilica. Some slept in sleeping bags, others prayed, and still others simply waited in silence. The bells are not yet ringing, but every gaze is on that churchyard where Francis’ coffin will soon appear.
A wait without grudges, without divisions: only gratitude.
In the queue there is no talk about politics, power, or the church. They talk about him. About the Pope who embraced the imprisoned, the sick, the discarded. Some tell of meeting him once by chance and never forgetting him.
Some people say, “I am not religious, but he made me believe in goodness.”
The sky over Rome is overcast, as are the eyes of many.
A gray veil spreads Rome, as if to guard it. Traffic has been diverted, schools closed, sirens turned off. It is a secular, collective respect. Pope Francis does not belong only to Catholics: he belongs to anyone who has seen in him an example of humanity.
At 10 a.m. the ritual will begin, but the heart has already been there for hours
Some clutch a rosary, some hold a photo, some simply look toward the basilica as if waiting for a last word. And in a sense, waiting is already prayer. It is living memory. It is shared sorrow.
Today Rome does not mourn a powerful man. It mourns a good man. And she does so in silence, waiting to say goodbye as he lived: with simplicity, but with truth.
To God, Franciscus.
