OUR Master lies asleep and at rest:
His Heart has ceased to bleed, His Eye to weep:
The sun ashamed has dropped down in the west:
Our Master lies asleep.
Now we are they who weep, and trembling keep
Vigil, With wrung heart in a sighing breast,
While slow time creeps, and slow shadows creep.
Renew Thy youth as eagle from the nest;
O Master who has sown, arise to reap:
No cock-crow yet: no flush on eastern crest:
Our Master lies asleep.
--Christina Rosetti (1830-1894), English poet and supporter of the Oxford Movement
Image: Mary Magdalene Approaches the Tomb, by Gian Girolamo Savoldo.
Until his final hour he had never
refused her anything or turned away,
lest she should turn their love to public praise.
Now she sank down beside the cross, disguised,
heavy with the largest stones of love
like jewels in the cover of her pain.
But later, when she came back to his grave
with tearful face, intending to anoint,
she found him resurrected for her sake,
saying with greater blessedness, “Do not –”
She understood it in her hollow first:
how with finality he now forbade
her, strengthened by his death, the oils’ relief
or any intimation of a touch:
because he wished to make of her the lover
who needs no more to lean on her beloved,
as, swept away by joy in such enormous
storms, she mounts even beyond his voice.
--Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926), German mystic poet and author, translated by Ann Conrad Lammers (1998), from New Poems, Second Part, 1908
for the transferred Feast of Mary Magdalene
