Easter Day

THE silver trumpets rang across the Dome:  
  The people knelt upon the ground with awe:  
  And borne upon the necks of men I saw,  
Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome.  
Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam,         
  And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red,  
  Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head:  
In splendour and in light the Pope passed home.  

My heart stole back across wide wastes of years  
  To One who wandered by a lonely sea,  
  And sought in vain for any place of rest:  
“Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest,  
  I, only I, must wander wearily,  
  And bruise my feet, and drink wine salt with tears.”

Oscar Wilde 

The Gift

(Easter meditation)

I

What are you doing with 

this resurrection life you have been given?

What are you doing now that

sin is dead?

What are you doing now that

death is not the victor?

What are you doing with 

this resurrection life you have been given?

II

What are you doing with 

this resurrection life you have been given?

What are you doing now that

Love has replaced the Law?

What are you doing now that

the last will be first?

What are you doing with 

this resurrection life you have been given?

III

What are you doing with 

this resurrection life you have been given?

What are you doing now that

you are a new creation?

What are you doing now that

you do not regard anyone with a worldly view?

What are you doing with 

this resurrection life you have been given?

Passion Play

(Good Friday Meditation)

“Surely it is not I, Surely it is not I”

“I have written what I have written.”

“I do not know, I do not know, I do not know him!”

“Crucify, crucify, crucify, crucify him.”

The Director halts this repetitive babble,

with his signature line:

“It is finished.”

The curtain rips and falls,

and the cast and crew

wonder if this is

the final act

of their careers. 

All the Kingdoms of the World

(Second temptation of Christ)

‘So here’s the deal and this is what you get:

The penthouse suite with world-commanding views,

The banker’s bonus and the private jet

Control and ownership of all the news

An ‘in’ to that exclusive one percent,

Who know the score, who really run the show

With interest on every penny lent 

And sweeteners for cronies in the know.

A straight arrangement between me and you

No hell below or heaven high above

You just admit it, and give me my due

And wake up from this foolish dream of love…’

But Jesus laughed, ‘You are not what you seem.

Love is the waking life, you are the dream.’

Malcolm Guite

Release

“At this particular place, what you’re seeing, essentially, is the process that had widened that valley over the last [glacial period]. … What you’re seeing is a landscape still recovering from glaciations. It’s a 15,000-year hangover." 

***Geologist on the Washington mudslides

O Mother Earth,

you still remember 

how the ice cut you

 and never forgot

the rape of your trees

while ignoring

 the houses of the

recent arrivals.

Did you feel the

small tremor 

 from 

the False Pass fault

coming through 

your saturated limbs

that

triggered you to

abandon your

show of strength 

and 

caused you to be

 fully separated 

from your weaknesses.

The First Night

         The worst thing about death must be

          the first night.

--Juan Ramón Jiménez

Before I opened you, Jiménez,

it never occurred to me that day and night

would continue to circle each other in the ring of death,

but now you have me wondering

if there will also be a sun and a moon

and will the dead gather to watch them rise and set

then repair, each soul alone,

to some ghastly equivalent of a bed.

Or will the first night be the only night,

a darkness for which we have no other name?

How feeble our vocabulary in the face of death,

How impossible to write it down.

This is where language will stop,

the horse we have ridden all our lives

rearing up at the edge of a dizzying cliff.

The word that was in the beginning

and the word that was made flesh—

those and all the other words will cease.

Even now, reading you on this trellised porch,

how can I describe a sun that will shine after death?

But it is enough to frighten me

into paying more attention to the world’s day-moon,

to sunlight bright on water

or fragmented in a grove of trees,

and to look more closely here at these small leaves,

these sentinel thorns,

whose employment it is to guard the rose.

  

 Billy Collins