Easter

Lent gathers up her cloak of sombre shading

   In her reluctant hands.

Her beauty heightens, fairest in its fading,
   As pensively she stands
Awaiting Easter’s benediction falling,
   Like silver stars at night,
Before she can obey the summons calling
   Her to her upward flight,
Awaiting Easter’s wings that she must borrow
   Ere she can hope to fly—
Those glorious wings that we shall see to-morrow
   Against the far, blue sky.
Has not the purple of her vesture’s lining
   Brought calm and rest to all?
Has her dark robe had naught of golden shining
   Been naught but pleasure’s pall?
Who knows? Perhaps when to the world returning
   In youth’s light joyousness,
We’ll wear some rarer jewels we found burning
   In Lent’s black-bordered dress.
So hand in hand with fitful March she lingers
   To beg the crowning grace
Of lifting with her pure and holy fingers
   The veil from April’s face.
Sweet, rosy April—laughing, sighing, waiting
   Until the gateway swings,
And she and Lent can kiss between the grating
   Of Easter’s tissue wings.
Too brief the bliss—the parting comes with sorrow.
   Good-bye dear Lent, good-bye!
We’ll watch your fading wings outlined to-morrow
   Against the far blue sky.

---Tekahionwake (Emily Pauline Johnson) (1961-1913), Canadian-Mohawk poet, Chautauqua speaker, journalist, storyteller, and Indigenous advocate.

St. Philip and the Ethiopian Eunuch

’TWAS silent all and dead
Beside the barren sea,
Where Philip’s steps were led,
Led by a voice from Thee—
He rose and went, nor ask’d Thee why,
Nor stay’d to heave one faithless sigh:

Upon his lonely way
The high-born traveller came,
Reading a mournful lay
Of “One who bore our shame,
Silent Himself, His name untold,
And yet His glories were of old.”

To muse what Heaven might mean
His wandering brow he rais’d,
And met an eye serene
That on him watchful gaz’d.
No hermit e’er so welcome cross’d
A child’s lone path in woodland lost.

Now wonder turns to love;
The scrolls of sacred lore
No darksome mazes prove;
The desert tires no more:
They bathe where holy waters flow,
Then on their way rejoicing go.

They part to meet in heaven;
But of the joy they share,
Absolving and forgiven,
The sweet remembrance bear.
Yes—mark him well, ye cold and proud,
Bewilder’d in a heartless crowd,

Starting and turning pale
At Rumour’s angry din—
No storm can now assail
The charm he wears within,
Rejoicing still, and doing good,
And with the thought of God imbu’d.

No glare of high estate,
No gloom of woe or want,
The radiance can abate
Where Heaven delights to haunt.
Sin only hides the genial ray,
And, round the Cross, makes night of day.

Then weep it from thy heart;
So may’st thou duly learn
The intercessor’s part,
Thy prayers and tears may earn
For fallen souls some healing breath,
Ere they have died th’ Apostate’s death.

--John Keble (1792-1866) Anglican priest, poet, and leader of the Oxford Movement 

Image: Baptism of the Eunuch by St. Philip, Alexandre Denis Abel de Pujol, 1848

Scripture reference: Acts 8:26-40, Easter 5B

Loveliest of Trees

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.

--A. E. Housman (1859-1936), British poet and professor

Dame Judi Dench recites this poem here:

Psalm 114

When Israel came from Egypt’s coast,
   And Goshen’s marshy plains,
And Jacob with his joyful host
   From servitude and chains;

Then was it seen how much the Jews
   Were holy in his sight,
And God did Israel’s kingdom choose
   To manifest his might.

The sea beheld it, and with dread
   Retreated to make way;
And Jordan to his fountain head
   Ran backwards in dismay.

The mountains, like the rams that bound,
   Exulted on their base;
Like lambs the little hills around
   Skipt lightly from their place.

What is the cause, thou mighty sea,
   That thou thyself should shun;
And Jordan, what is come to thee,
   That thou should backward run?

Ye mountains that ye leaped so high
   From off the solid rock,
Ye hills that ye should gambols try,
   Like firstlings of the flock?

Earth, from the center to the sod
   His fearful presence hail
The presence of Jeshurun’s God,
   In whom our arms prevail.

Who beds of rocks in pools to stand
   Can by his word compel,
And from the veiny flint command
   The fountain and the well.

--Christopher Smart (1722-1771), English poet and forerunner of the Romantic movement, of varied religious background who had a conversion experience after a mental breakdown, who struggled with alcoholism and mental illness, from his A Translation of the Psalms of David.

Scripture reference: Psalm 114, Easter Vigil, and Proper 19A track 1

Everness

Inspired by Psalm 23.

When healing oil was needed
   for the wounds within my soul,
When battered raw and bleeding,
   I needed to be whole.
When enemies surrounded me,
   and all I knew was fear,
My Shepherd came and found me,
   and whispered, “I am here.”

He lifts me on His shoulders
   and laughs in fear's face,
He carries me through danger,
   and all I know is Grace.
Then gently puts me down again
   though enemies abound,
He tells me I am dear to Him,
   for I'm the sheep He found!

He leads me to green pastures
   and rests me by cool streams,
He lays a table for me
   within my darkest dreams.
The nourishment is such
   that when it's time to follow on,
I gladly face tomorrow,
   for all my fears are gone.

So when I cannot thank Him
   for all that's comes to pass,
I'll feast within the wilderness
   and wait for greener grass.
When I can't praise for what's been done,
   I'll lift my voice out loud
And praise my Lord for who He is
   “in” what He has allowed!

Praise who He is, my Shepherd dear,
   who gave His life for me,
Who's led and fed and raised the dead
   to live in Victory!
Whose rod and staff have saved me,
   from all my sinfulness,
He'll wipe the tear, be ever near,
   in Glory's Everness.

--Jill Briscoe, from Telling the Truth website, 2017.

I Saw Him Standing

Under the dark trees, there he stands,
there he stands; shall he not draw my eyes?
I thought I knew a little
how he compels, beyond all things, but now
he stands there in the shadows. It will be
Oh, such a daybreak, such bright morning,
when I shall wake to see him
as he is.

He is called Rose of Sharon, for his skin
is clear, his skin is flushed with blood,
his body lovely and exact; how he compels
beyond ten thousand rivals. There he stands,
my friend, the friend of guilt and helplessness,
to steer my hollow body
over the sea.

The earth is full of masks and fetishes,
what is there here for me? are these like him?
Keep company with him and you will know:
no kin, no likeness to those empty eyes.
he is a stranger to them all, great Jesus.
What is there here for me? I know
what I have longed for. Him to hold me always.



--Ann Griffiths (1776-1805), Welsh Methodist, farmer’s daughter and wife in mid North Wales, considered to be one of the greatest Welsh religious poets and hymnist who died in childbirth at age 29. Translated from Welsh by former Archbishop of Canterbury Rowan Williams.

Easter Absolutes

Disaster lurks in Easter absolutes,
The sun is straining blood through time,
Heaven, is innocence so far away?
Hell, are you gaping in your fury?

To think, to feel, to see, to be 

Control confusion and force dispute 

Cringing before the cold, glad Easter
Where dwell the ruthless relatives. 

Heavens of contemplation, and first
Belief, that runs lamb-like here, 

Give me the order of the soul's sway

And harmony that teaches mastery. 

Christ now come from out the tomb, 

None other, and walk upon the ruined meadows, 

Dream-like vision, powerful beyond reality,

Where the spirit is jocund, where it would go.


--Richard Eberhart

Easter

Remembering his ancient heritage
Of broken flowers and winter's way with them,
The Wind moves with a sound of faint rage
Through leaf and lily stem.

Remembering the voices that are stilled,
The heads that shone like jonquils in the sun,
The eager hands that long with dust are filled,
We wake and know that the months of cold are done.

O Eucharist of promise unrevealed,
Hope yearly slain and hunger never fed!
Out of our hearts by the new sun unsealed,
Now troop the rising dead.

They reach their pleading hands to the shining crowd,
And years of sleep blow like a mist around them.
Pale and humble are they who were happy and proud,
They are gone in a mist, they are lost before we have found them.

--Jessica Nelson North (1891-1988), poet, novelist, children's book author, and editor.

Easter

The first forsythia;
daffodils;
gorse or whins or furze
on hills,

in hedges.
Late winter aconite;
dandelions; primroses
challenging the light

of Easter morning.
The lesser Celandine;
a yellow fertilizer
bag define

spring in our steps.
I love my children
and my wife.
Rise all again and again.

--Peter Fallon (1951- ), Irish poet and editor

Easter Week

See the land, her Easter keeping, 

Rises as her Maker rose.
Seeds, so long in darkness sleeping,
Burst at last from winter snows.
Earth with heaven above rejoices;
Fields and gardens hail the spring;
Shaughs and woodlands ring with voices,
While the wild birds build and sing.

You, to whom your Maker granted
Powers to those sweet birds unknown,
Use the craft by God implanted;
Use the reason not your own.
Here, while heaven and earth rejoices,
Each his Easter tribute bring-
Work of fingers, chant of voices,
Like the birds who build and sing.


-- Charles Kingsley (1819-1875), English priest and poet

Easter in the Field

                              I

The staggering cross and grief united us
When Pilate washed his irritated palms; 

Embracing in scarlet garments then, we came 

In the expansion of our tears to this 

Revision of the way: with lofty hands 

To tend the stitch of scars, to go abroad 

In the wet shine of morning under God
With protocol and sword to win these lands.

                              II

Came trotting through the Roman countryside 

A horse with feathers like a cockatoo, 

When horse and rider, both neurotic, threw
Themselves upon the blazing scrub and cried;
For high in evening's undiminished west 

A sensual heart, depending on the earth,
Towards that dark creature and St. Paul came forth;
And when they rode from there, the heart rode first.

                              III

Where they are riding now is ever lost; 

But when the charcoal cross sinks in the year
And fields that wear old leaves and thorny gear 

Are swept like a proscenium of dust, 

In renovations of some glad disguise
Children and dandelions suddenly
Will lease the rooms of summer from the sky
And everywhere the lost unblessed will rise. 

                              IV

Though coming forth were death we would arise,
Since resurrection is our signature; 

Though coming forth, disputing and unsure, 

But starts old wheels and old futilities, 

We ride the season carelessly, still glad 

To dance with blushing Christ and make a rope
Of daisies for his black top-hat and cape,
To preach his legends while we dress our dead.

-- John Malcolm Brinnin

Resurrection

What became of the many others like us
That first Easter morning
Who stared out the back windows of their houses
With blank cups of coffee in their hands
And saw nothing but overcast skies and leafless trees
And weeping weather that mourned for Spring
And did not hear a knock at the door
Or receive a telephone call
From a recently deceased loved one
Or pass Him along the road to an ancient city
Or see the sun rise up from a hole in the earth
Like Hosanna


—Stephen Rybicki (1941-2022), poet and librarian.

Image: Jose Luis Castrillo, "Et Resurrecit II"

Easter Eggs

As I hold one steady for my three-year-old while he

slaps it with garish red, yellow, black, changing my hand
and his to bright apparitions around that perfectly
ordinary whiteness, I wonder what strange need
began this, drove us to add these brittle
ornaments to spring's own: the pastel flowers
of bulbs already open, the sky's deepening blue,
the enfolding green incipient everywhere. But he
sees differently, chooses these fall colors
to wonder at--then, suddenly, wonders most of all
at my hand and how he's transformed it, laughing
as he paints it again and again, until the egg
takes color from my mere touch, and I understand
these eggs are not for spring, not newness: they belong
to that oldest world we've carried always within us, ablaze
with magnificent birds that could only hatch from such brilliance,
ourselves savagely radiant in our own colors.

--Mark Anderson

Indigenous First Fire Ceremony (Easter Vigil)

First Fire Ceremony

A service for Easter Vigil

 

The people gather around a fire pit in the circle outside the church. In preparation for the ceremony prayers have been written on pieces of paper.

 

Introduction by Elder:

Sisters and brothers, we gather on this night to mark the end of a journey and the invitation to into a new creation. We celebrate the tradition of our ancestors with the lighting of a fire, this fire. We invite God our Creator into our presence with the following prayer:

 

(The fire is lit. First tobacco and then sweet grass is placed on the fire. The sacred fire is within your own heart, the sacred place of the most high-- only you can go there.)

 

The Sacred Fire Prayer

We circle around the fire 
We feel the spirits near
We know their loving presence 
As we offer them our prayers

See the gentle smoke rising
From the earth to the sky
Sharing each prayer we offer
With the ancient ones on high

Every thought, every hope
Every joy, every dream
Sent upon the sacred smoke
To the ancient ones unseen

Hear the voice calling you
In your heart you know it's true
Feel the love abound
Of the ancient ones around you

Elder continues and people respond:
O Great Spirit of the East,
radiance of the rising sun,
Spirit of new beginnings,
O Grandfather fire,
Great nuclear fire-- of the Sun,
Power of life-energy, vital spark, power to see far,
and to Imagine with boldness.
Power to purify our senses,
our hearts and our minds,
we pray that we may be aligned with you,
so that your powers may flow through us,
And be expressed by us, for the good of this our Mother Earth
and all that you have created on it.

Elder concludes:
Ancient one, eternally young, giver of life and source of energy, with fire you kindle the heavens to shine. In us the spiritual light of your embrace lights our hearts afire so that we might be your light in the world. We give thanks for:

At this time we will ask for prayers to be shared out loud or in silence. As each person prays they are asked to come forward placing those things that we leave behind into the fire acknowledging that they have been answered.

Once these things have burned to smoke and ash, we will continue with the lighting of the Pascal candle. Sweet grass is added to the fire.

Presider continues:
On this most holy night, in which our Lord Jesus passed over from death to life, we celebrate his victory over death and pray:

Creator God, through your Son you have bestowed upon your people the brightness of your light: sanctify this new fire, and grant that in this paschal feast we may so burn with heavenly desires, that with pure minds we may attain to the festival of everlasting light; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

The Paschal Candle is lit from the newly kindled fire. The candle of each person is lit from the Paschal Candle. The people process into the church and the Paschal Candle is brought to the altar. Each person is invited to follow this symbolic fire.

The cantor sings the Exsultet as we process. When we reach the altar the congregation forms a circle around the altar.

 

Cantor:     The light of Christ.
People:     Thanks be to God. 
Repeated three times

 

EXSULTET

COLLECT

The congregation processes to the baptismal font (a song may be sung here, preferably led by a drum)

BLESSING OVER WATER
Presider continues
We thank you, O Divine Creator, for the gift of water. Over it your Spirit moved in the beginning of creation. Over at your Spirit moves and the circle of life continues, flowing through the wombs of the earth.

People, facing East
Creator, we remember that from the East each new day is born and the spiritual gifts of wisdom and prophecy are nourished by the waters of the Atlantic and beyond.

Water from the East is poured into the font
Presider
Creator of all, thank you for each new beginning. Bless this flowing water from the East and the new life it represents.

People, facing South
Creator, we remember ourselves as relatives of the people and waters of the South who bring us the spiritual gifts of faith and knowledge and the warmth of your creation.

Water from the South is poured into the font
Presider
Creator of all, thank you for the warmth. Bless this flowing water from the south and the new life it brings forth.


People, facing West
Creator, you gave us the spiritual gifts of love and understanding. The waters of the Pacific and beyond see the last light of day and bring in the night.

Water from the West is poured into the font
Presider
Creator of all, thank you for the night. Bless this flowing water from the West and the new life it brings forth.

People, facing North
Creator, we thank you for the coolness of the north, the season for sleep and rest and for the snow as it prepares to be transformed into new water and new life.

Water from the North is poured into the font
Presider

Creator of all, thank you for coolness and rest period bless this flowing water and the new life it brings forth.

Creator, this water has come from different directions, the East, South, West, and North. It represents the fruits of the Spirit and your creation. We have put ourselves into one font and ask you to sanctify this water and use it as a symbol of our commitment to be one faithful community joining together in the risen life of Jesus Christ your Son. Amen.

Each person is invited to take water from this sacred water. In it we are one period in it we are reminded of the blessings that it brings forth. Once water has been poured together it cannot be separated.

 

 

--The Rev. Debbie Royals,  from the Rev. Debbie Royals, ed.  A Sampler: Native American/Alaska Native and Native Hawai’ian Liturgies, Prepared for the 76^th General Convention of the Episcopal Church, July 2009, Anaheim, CA.

Ascension

Salute the last, and everlasting day,

Joy at the uprising of this Sun, and Son,
Ye whose true tears, or tribulation
Have purely wash’d, or burnt your drossy clay.
Behold, the Highest, parting hence away,
Lightens the dark clouds, which He treads upon;
Nor doth He by ascending show alone,
But first He, and He first enters the way.
O strong Ram, which hast batter’d Heaven for me!
Mild lamb, which with Thy Blood hast mark’d the path!
Bright Torch, which shinest, that I the way may see!
O, with Thy own Blood quench Thy own just wrath;
And if Thy Holy Spirit my Muse did raise,
Deign at my hands this crown of prayer and praise.

-- John Donne (1572-1631) English priest, poet, and essayist

Ascension Day

Why stand ye gazing up into Heaven? this same Jesus, which

is taken up from you into Heaven, shall so come in like
manner as ye have seen Him go into Heaven. Acts i. 11

Soft cloud, that while the breeze of May
Chants her glad matins in the leafy arch,
Draw'st thy bright veil across the heavenly way
Meet pavement for an angel's glorious march:

My soul is envious of mine eye,
That it should soar and glide with thee so fast,
The while my grovelling thoughts half buried lie,
Or lawless roam around this earthly waste.

Chains of my heart, avaunt I say-
I will arise, and in the strength of love
Pursue the bright track ere it fade away,
My Saviour's pathway to His home above.

Sure, when I reach the point where earth
Melts into nothing from th' uncumbered sight,
Heaven will o'ercome th' attraction of my birth.
And I shall sink in yonder sea of light:

Till resting by th' incarnate LORD,
Once bleeding, now triumphant for my sake,
I mark Him, how by seraph hosts adored,
He to earth's lowest cares is still awake.

The sun and every vassal star,
All space, beyond the soar of angel wings,
Wait on His word: and yet He stays His car
For every sigh a contrite suppliant brings.

He listens to the silent tear
For all the anthems of the boundless sky-
And shall our dreams of music bar our ear
To His soul-piercing voice for ever nigh?

Nay, gracious Saviour-but as now
Our thoughts have traced Thee to Thy glory-throne
So help us evermore with thee to bow
Where human sorrow breathes her lowly moan.

We must not stand to gaze too long,
Though on unfolding Heaven our gaze we bend
Where lost behind the bright angelic throng
We see CHRIST'S entering triumph slow ascend.

No fear but we shall soon behold,
Faster than now it fades, that gleam revive,
When issuing from his cloud of fiery gold
Our wasted frames feel the true sun, and live.

Then shall we see Thee as Thou art,
For ever fixed in no unfruitful gaze,
But such as lifts the new-created heart,
Age after age, in worthier love and praise.

--John Keble (1792-1866), Anglican priest, poet, professor, and one of the leaders of the Oxford movement

Resurrection

Long, long, long ago;
Way before this winter’s snow
First fell upon these weathered fields;
I used to sit and watch and feel
And dream of how the spring would be,
When through the winter’s stormy sea
She’d raise her green and growing head,
Her warmth would resurrect the dead.

Long before this winter’s snow
I dreamt of this day’s sunny glow
And thought somehow my pain would pass
With winter’s pain, and peace like grass
Would simply grow. (But) The pain’s not gone.
It’s still as cold and hard and long
As lonely pain has ever been,
It cuts so deep and fear within.

Long before this winter’s snow
I ran from pain, looked high and low
For some fast way to get around
Its hurt and cold. I’d have found,
If I had looked at what was there,
That things don’t follow fast or fair.
That life goes on, and times do change,
And grass does grow despite life’s pains.

Long before this winter’s snow
I thought that this day’s sunny glow,
The smiling children and growing things
And flowers bright were brought by spring.
Now, I know the sun does shine,
That children smile, and from the dark, cold, grime
A flower comes. It groans, yet sings,
And through its pain, its peace begins.

--Mary Ann Bernard, from Rueben Job and Norman Shawchuck, eds., A Guide To Prayer (Nashville: The Upper Room), p. 144.

Resurrection

My friend a writer and scientist

has retreated to a monastery
where he has submitted himself
out of exhaustion to not knowing.
He’s been thinking about
the incarnation a.k.a. Big Bang
after hearing a monk’s teaching
that crucifixion was not the hard part
for Christ. Incarnation was.
How to squeeze all of that
all-of-that into a body. I woke
that Easter to think of the Yaqui
celebrations taking place in our city
the culminating ritual of the Gloria
when the disruptive spirits
with their clacking daggers and swords
are repelled from the sanctuary
by women and children
throwing cottonwood leaves and confetti
and then my mother rose
in me rose from the anguish
of her hospice bed a woman
who expected to direct all the action
complaining to her nurse
I’ve been here three days
and I’m not dead yet—not ready
at one hundred and two to give up
control even to giving up control.
I helped with the morphine clicker.
Peace peace peace the stilling
at her throat the hazel eye
become a glassy marble. Yet here she is
an Easter irreverent still rising
to dress in loud pastels
and turn me loose
in Connecticut woods to hunt
my basket of marshmallow eggs
jelly beans and chocolate rabbit
there fakeries of nature made vestal
incarnated in their nest of shiny manufactured grass.

--Alison Hawthorne Deming (1945- ), American poet and essayist

Late Easter, Spring Come Lately

She, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, and I will take him away.

In one of John Donne’s under-read
hymns, on his sickness, he claims one place
held Paradise and Calvary—Adam’s disgrace,
too: over whose tree we choose instead

the cross of the tender forester.
He tended there by virtue of his blood
the ancient ruin of that prior wood.
(Its seed was left in Adam’s mouth at first,

by Seth, as legend has it, or so it goes.)
And so the fevered poet felt the sweat
of elder Adam, even as his soul met
in extremity new Adam in clothes

fit for cultivation. Lilied fields exhibit
still some aboriginal greenhouse of Love.
It’s enough to make one’s mind flutter over
another poet full of holy ambition,

who borrowed lilies from a deceased
imperial nephew, scraped the epic
sadness from their petals. He quickly
tuned them to a better season,

while with great reasonableness
his blessed one arrived by chariot,
clad in green and red, his fair excoriator.
Her lesson? Hope should be unceasing,
yet stern as a plunger that excavates
those parasitic sins from any scrounging,
gaunt-faced pilgrim. Then the longed-
for orbit commenced, longing sated.

His soul became both wholly full,
yet pulled by fiercer hunger from folly
toward heaven’s center, ultimate pole,
temple where God welcomes fools.

--Brett Foster (1973-2015), American poet, Renaissance scholar, and teacher,  from Image Journal

Image: Noli Me Tangere, Grant Sutherland, Chichester Cathedral

Noli Me Tangere: San Marco, Florence

Outside this cell the sparrows repeat
their seasonal songs.
Here a fresco to teach the soul
the same lesson over and over.

I come often. I think
of the monk who, each morning, faced
the grief of reaching out for what is always
just out of reach.

Just the other side
of Mary's outstretched hands,
Christ's trailing hand serenely denies.
His lightened body leaves no footprints

in the grass. For too many years
I have seen your hands laid at your sides,
your face which left me nothing
I could say.

In this cell, I see the monk’s breath
following him as he walks.
I see how Mary keeps
entering the solitudes of grief,

her hands filling with memory
as one by one by one
those last perfect words drift beyond
her understanding.


--Robert Cording, (1949- ), American poet and teacher, from A Word in My Mouth: Selected Spiritual Poems