Easter morning at St Martha's, March 31 2013

We gather just below St Martha's Hill –
First one, then several cars drive up and park,
And out we get, wrapped warm against the chill,
Our eyes adjusting to the lingering dark.
And: 'Christ is Risen!' – we chant our Easter words,
And turn toward the East, and then begin
To climb, as onomatopoeic birds
Trill, chitter, chirrup, tweet the morning in.
Dark trees like Japanese silhouettes regain
Solidity: oak, beech, and silver birch.
Colour seeps through the world. The fox-red lane
Through muted greens climbs to the pilgrim church.
The gilded cloud banks tease our waiting eyes
Till blazing sunrise bursts across the skies.

Maundy Thursday: Stripping the Church

(Revised version)

Candlesticks, chalice, paten all remind
Us of the reverence we seek to show
Our Paschal King. They are the first to go
This Maundy Night. It's time to leave behind
The starched white linen, gold brocade, and find
A bleaker, naked faith; to undergo
The three days' death that wakens us to know
This paradox: to see we must grow blind.

Criss-crossing without words the servers walk,
Take cloths and hangings out; we kneel, and pray;
The lights are dimmed; now Lent has done its work.
The chill night air strips clinging warmth away,
And sound and light are for another day –
Tonight we leave into the silent dark.

Judas

I am a man of sorrows
and acquainted with grief.
The sorrows struck early –
I was a child of a colony
and acquainted with pique,
with ever-ripe resentment
ready to be plucked,
its bitter gall savoured
or spat out at the feet
of the civilised Romans.

I grew up among thorns –
prickly spirited rebels
hugging their grudges tight,
fighting off indifference,
clinging to like-minded types
and shrugging off the rest.
When little seemed to change,
when every saviour fell,
I took what I could get,
of women, wine or wealth.

Then Jeshua came along,
resparked the fire.
A man worth noting,
a cause to consider.
He spoke strange words,
of seeds and pearls and camels–
I didn't understand.
And when the jar was smashed,
and stank of wasted wealth,
the fire sputtered out.

With thirty silver coins
one could do a lot of good.
But who am I trying to kid?
With a thousand coins of gold
you couldn't buy that pearl,
the one I threw away.
Oh yes, I get it now –
the camel and the pearl –
for I am a man of betrayal
and acquainted with greed.

Passion

(Please note: this is not a new poem. I have reposted it from my other blog, "Older Poems", purely and simply because it fits the season.)

I brought them the kingdom, invited them in;
And some came along, and some chose to stay.
I preached and I healed and I freed them from sin,
But now it is time that I go on my way.
I must set my face for Jerusalem,
Though they still don't know who I really am.

O Peter: I called you, and you followed me,
So forward and brave, so honest and true,
But oh, will you wish you had stayed by the sea
When you find what my way has in store for you?
Peter - so sure that you're always right -
Just wait till the cock crows late in the night.

You said, 'You're the Christ,' but you wouldn't stop there;
You couldn't believe I must suffer and die.
I had to rebuke you, to show that I care:
I can't let you live with that comfortable lie.
So I'll walk to Jerusalem just for you;
I love you too much not to see it through.

O Mary, your demons tormented you so,
So I cast them away, and I healed your pain,
And now you are filled with love through and through -
Oh, how can I let you face torment again?
Yet I must make my way to Jerusalem,
And allow you to see who I really am.

You'll live through grief, and do what you must do -
While others flee, you will still bear the pain;
And the empty tomb will torment you anew,
Till a voice says, 'Mary,' and you live again.
But for now, to Jerusalem I must go
With no regrets, for I love you so.

O Father, why must I drink this cup?
Is there no other way that I could go?
To raise them to heaven, must they lift me up?
But if it's your will, then it will be so.
My God, must you forsake me too?
For love of them all I will see it through.

Their wrath, not yours, must run its course;
Your heart will break, but you'll let them be.
I'll drink till their pride has spent its force;
I'll drink bitter pain till my death sets them free.
My God, they forsake us, yet we stay true,
For love of them all we will see it through.

Cinquemillenial

Since two years and two months ago

this blog has had five thousand views.

The entries made: six score or so

since two years and two months ago.

It's nice to see my baby grow;

though not by Armitage or Hughes,

since two years and two months ago

this blog has had five thousand views.

Family Gathering

Driving, arriving,

gathering, greeting,

talking, pausing,

drinking, eating,

smiling, settling,

liking, loving,

resting, chatting,

reluctantly leaving.

Pontius

Will a plea of ignorance do it?
'Forgive me, for I knew not
whom I was sacrificing.' There now.
My, how pompous that sounds.
Pompous Pilate, that's me.
Sitting in my palace, asking
all the right questions, but not necessarily
giving the right orders. I didn't know
who I was ditching, but I knew
he didn't deserve death. Damn him!

What was I to do? I, the Prefect of Judaea,
answering to the Syrian Headmaster,
handing out a detention here, a beating there –
I had too much – and not enough – power.
Please do not ascribe to malice
what incompetence adequately explains:
Incompetent Pilate, that's me. Competent
to crush a Peasants' Revolt, squeeze taxes,
and keep a precarious peace. But not
to face a different sort of king, to grasp
the nettle of his truth. Pity me.

Dante took me for a coward,
would confine me just inside
the Infernal gates. Well, here's the thing:
I've been in hell since first I saw that face;
bound by my office, bearing my cross,
I found my wiggle-room shrinking to nought –
I'm sorry. That sounds so pitiable.
I should stop.

I should have stopped.
I tried to stop –
I tried to stop them,
to offer a face-saving get-out:
a beating, a pardon, a festival boon.
But their clamour confounded me,
and I caved in cravenly.
Ha! I can still turn a phrase, then:
Sonorous Pilate, that's me.
I'm a man for all that –
but never a king.
A pawn?  A pretender? A viceroy?
Where did I stand in the strata of power?
Not high enough, not even close.

Who was I? A man, with the taste of fame
remorselessly turning to ash on his lips;
through ignorance, through weakness,
through his own deliberate fault
washing his hands, and soiling his soul.
May the judgement not be too heavy upon me.