St. Dismas

 

St. Dismas

I think of you as the prince carried home, lord, lion
With a thorn mane riding on the thumbs
Of hunters in the black air smiling,
So hungry. You’re bleeding. I need to believe in
So I believe in your blood, the long down-rivers of your waist.
Listen, is this how fathers love?
I hear your chest try to escape its ruined field,
I hear how your cheek lolls in the dark
Of your neck. Forgive parts the dry lips, lord,
Can we all live in that murmur, the slight press of tooth
To tongue. Do we speak to them, down there? Spit and split
The moonlight. Your mother’s hands float on our feet like water.
I want that you remember me when you get there,
Take me through the shock, roped by biceps,
Already part way up the sky.
Who dies first. Who dies in the lanternlight swinging.
I begin to love you deep
In the valve your father pinned
In my heart

-- Eve Jones, poet, photographer, and professor at Lindenwood University (MFA UMSL), from Dappled Things journal

39One of the criminals who were hanged there kept deriding him and saying, "Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!" 40But the other rebuked him, saying, "Do you not fear God, since you are under the same sentence of condemnation? 41And we indeed have been condemned justly, for we are getting what we deserve for our deeds, but this man has done nothing wrong." 42Then he said, "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom." 43He replied, "Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise."-- Luke 23:39-43

Scripture Reference: Luke 22:14-23:56 (The Passion Narrative), Palm/Passion Sunday, Good Friday; Reign of Christ C Proper 29C

Image: Remember Me, Barbara de Reus Kamma, New Guinean/Dutch, chamois leather and scrap wood, story can be found here at artway.eu.

Taize: "Jesus, Remember Me..."

The Armful

For every parcel I stoop down to seize
I lose some other off my arms and knees,
And the whole pile is slipping, bottles, buns —
Extremes too hard to comprehend at once,
Yet nothing I should care to leave behind.
With all I have to hold with hand and mind
And heart, if need be, I will do my best
To keep their building balanced at my breast.
I crouch down to prevent them as they fall;
Then sit down in the middle of them all.
I had to drop the armful in the road
And try to stack them in a better load.

-- Robert Frost

Scripture reference: Mark 10:37-51, Proper 23 B

Miracle

Not the one who takes up his bed and walks

But the ones who have known him all along 

And carry him in — 

Their shoulders numb, the ache and stoop deeplocked 

In their backs, the stretcher handles 

Slippery with sweat. And no let-up 

Until he’s strapped on tight, made tiltable 

And raised to the tiled roof, then lowered for healing. 

Be mindful of them as they stand and wait 

For the burn of the paid-out ropes to cool, 

Their slight lightheadedness and incredulity 

To pass, those ones who had known him all along.

--Seamus Heaney (1939-2013), poet, translator, and playwright, Nobel Prize winner for Literature in 1995 along with a dozen other honors, one of the major poets of the 20th century, from 100 Poems.

Scripture reference: Matthew 9:1-8; Mark 2:1-12 (7th Sunday after the Epiphany B); Luke 5:18-20

Image: Healing the paralytic at Capernaum, Galway City Museum

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

Love's Growth

I scarce believe my love to be so pure
As I had thought it was,
Because it doth endure
Vicissitude, and season, as the grass;
Methinks I lied all winter, when I swore
My love was infinite, if spring make’ it more.

But if medicine, love, which cures all sorrow
With more, not only be no quintessence,
But mixed of all stuffs paining soul or sense,
And of the sun his working vigor borrow,
Love’s not so pure, and abstract, as they use
To say, which have no mistress but their muse,
But as all else, being elemented too,
Love sometimes would contemplate, sometimes do.

And yet no greater, but more eminent,
Love by the spring is grown;
As, in the firmament,
Stars by the sun are not enlarged, but shown,
Gentle love deeds, as blossoms on a bough,
From love’s awakened root do bud out now.

If, as water stirred more circles be
Produced by one, love such additions take,
Those, like so many spheres, but one heaven make,
For they are all concentric unto thee;
And though each spring do add to love new heat,
As princes do in time of action get
New taxes, and remit them not in peace,
No winter shall abate the spring’s increase.

--John Donne (1571-1631), one of the premier English metaphysical poets, politician, writer, and Anglican priest

scripture reference: 1 John 3:16-24, Easter 4B

The Agony & The Garden

 

i.
Now all he dreams are ropes,
sees them in the trees at the beginning of
the world: grim slide of vines
through first light
throat-tails dangled, mother-arms,
an instinct of the hand to twist, like a heart,
around what it holds.

ii.
Half his heart is a campfire.
Father, he begins, father,—
He stands there and the black gears of night lurch
through sand. On the other side of the hill olive trees
descend into questions, into women, into merchants,
into emperor flesh, into pottery, into bread, into a child’s
mouth, into a waltz, into the printing press, into thermometers,
into sighing gardens, into motion pictures, into
glass, into bedposts, into soup, into car exhaust, into rain,
into glaciers, into unread letters, into ATMs.

Father, the wind. The ordinary life.

iii.
He does not understand women,
was given no glimpse or direction. He only
knows the world unfolds from their robes the way
wine spills from a cup.

He knows they sometimes take the form of angels,
and they will take the bruised form of saints,
and celestial bodies,
they are like long roads, the hushed underneck
of a swan, and they reach, wanting
to know you, palms uncoiling
past
you in ecstasy.

iv.
It’s the nightmare again in which his feet
are splinters, and his mother is gasping,
and his face peels off onto linen,
and his father watches him from a night tree,
and there is some great secret he must shove
up the hill, to the sky,
where he is loved, loved
only by thieves.

v.
The world lights a broken man.
And the apparition he sweats beside,
realized into angel, into lamp, how it
bears him as the soldiers push
their way through blackness, through
the olives, thistle, and his dark-eyed heart,
a dinghy tossed in another life’s dream.
Far rain on the ocean, where a father is nowhere
to be found. If grace is the fixed star
we long for, the good disciples must sleep their parts,
hands folded on their hearts like oak
doors. Somewhere at the hillfoot the crossmaker
is roping beams in his shop’s
half-light. So they come and they come
in their armor, mirroring moonlight.
Now the moon opens on his heel.
The moon is the scent of a shy girl’s letter.
When they stand, and they stand, her feather tips
brush the wall.


-- Eve Jones, poet, photographer, former instructor at Lindenwood University, from Dappled Things journal.

Scripture reference: Matthew 26:31-41; Mark 14:27-37; (The Passion Liturgy, years A and B)

Image: Christ on the Mount of Olives, Paul Gauguin, 1889

Oratorio: Christ on the Mount of Olives, Op. 85, Ludwig van Beethoven, UC Davis Symphony Orchestra and Chorus

 

Sabbath 1998, I

Whatever happens,
those who have learned
to love one another
have made their way
to the lasting world
and will not leave,
whatever happens.


-- Wendell Berry (1934- ), American poet, novelist, essayist, farmer, and agrarian philosopher

Scripture reference: 1 John 3:16-24, Easter 4B

The Fig Tree's Lesson

In winter the fig trees sleep,

replete with dreams of spring,

and within each bare, fragile branch and twig

an unfurled leaf lies waiting in possibility,

here and there, invisible

to our eyes.

Keep watch, the Teacher said,

eyes open. But not 

a dread-draught, like awaiting biopsy results,

the footsteps of the doctor down sanitized halls.

Observe.

Even as the branches tick together 

beneath leaden skies, the last

leaves discarded just weeks ago,

Edenic attire now scattered carelessly underfoot

as if walking into a Black Friday dressing room.

Observe.

Sit in silent, appreciative anticipation,

breathing, in union with the slumbering Earth,

who bears both your body and this fig tree

with gentle, cupped hands.

Keep watch in wonder.

Even before winter’s commencement

the certainty of spring

lies somnolent, expectant,

blossoming forth, even now

just beneath the chilled bark of the fig tree.

Come and sit tomorrow

and you may see some small sign.

You do not know the hour.

But already the burgeoning has begun,

first the buds, then the leaves,

then the inside-out flowers

envy-green to aubergine 

that fill the hand with pregnant, succulent heft,

to bloom on the tongue come Eastertide, 

gritty as honeycomb,

an Advent promise fulfilled.

--Leslie Barnes Scoopmire, November 17, 2023

Scripture reference: Mark 13:24-37, Advent 1B

My Father and the Fig Tree

For other fruits, my father was indifferent. 

He'd point at the cherry trees and say, 

"See those? I wish they were figs."
In the evening he sat by my beds 

weaving folktales like vivid little scarves. 

They always involved a fig tree.
Even when it didn't fit, he'd stick it in.
Once Joha was walking down the road
and he saw a fig tree.
Or, he tied his camel to a fig tree and went to sleep. 

Or, later when they caught and arrested him,
his pockets were full of figs.

At age six I ate a dried fig and shrugged. 

"That's not what I'm talking about! he said,
"I'm talking about a fig straight from the earth – 

gift of Allah! -- on a branch so heavy
it touches the ground.
I'm talking about picking the largest, fattest, 

sweetest fig
in the world and putting it in my mouth."
(Here he'd stop and close his eyes.)

Years passed, we lived in many houses,
none had figtrees.
We had lima beans, zucchini, parsley, beets. 

"Plant one!" my mother said.
but my father never did.
He tended garden half-heartedly, forgot to water, 

let the okra get too big.
"What a dreamer he is. Look how many
things he starts and doesn't finish."

The last time he moved, I got a phone call, 

My father, in Arabic, chanting a song
I'd never heard. "What's that?"
He took me out back to the new yard. 

There, in the middle of Dallas, Texas,

a tree with the largest, fattest, 

sweetest fig in the world.
"It's a figtree song!" he said, 

plucking his fruits like ripe tokens, 

emblems, assurance
of a world that was always his own.

--Naomi Shihab Nye (1952- ), Ferguson-born Palestinian-American poet, translator, and author, from 19 Varieties of Gazelle.

Joha is a trickster in Arab tales.

Scripture reference: Mark 13:24-37 (Advent 1B)

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

Transfigured

Luke 9:28-36

Sometimes, for a suspended moment,
light can be a physical presence, causing
eyelids to slam down like window-blinds, the doors
of the mind to bang shut in shock and wonder,
hands thrown up, defensively, as the flare
makes visible the bones in those same hands, hands
whose strength had been a source of pride but now
seemed as ephemeral as moth wings against such a light.

Even with our eyes closed, the figures danced
orange and black upon the green screen of eyelids.
Light so bright it deafened,
at first we reeled, contained within the thunderous roar
of an open furnace door. Lightning forked heavenward
and split. Jesus stood, and two more--
on one side the Law in Moses, forming community; on the other
Elijah’s prophetic imagination: poet and goad.
In the center the Human One, divine image perfected
yet also living, enfleshed, as when veiled, among us.

And then the humming sound of our own heartbeats.
Now we saw the seams torn asunder,
Virtues at the center of a humanity,
enlightenment embodied, laid bare
and God’s Wisdom in the center, committed,
to lay himself down for our sake.
The holy companions murmured together,
as old friends do, laughing at meeting again,
the delight in pulling back the curtain
revealing essential cosmic union.
Of course we wished to stay forever.

But the pronouncement to listen shocked us to silence,
and we staggered like sleepwalkers
from the cloud-shrouded mountain,
newly alive, boundaries of earth and sky
an illusion. Scattered images dancing
along nerves, transformed from experience to memory,
our footsteps in sync with each pulse
that beat as one with that sacred heart
and thrummed from that unpierced wrist
and beautiful, unmarred brow,
Earth electric beneath our feet, transfigured.

--LKS, written for the Feast of the Transfiguration, August 6, first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul for August 3, 2023.

Putting in the Seed

You come to fetch me from my work to-night 

When supper's on the table, and we'll see
If I can leave off burying the white
Soft petals fallen from the apple tree.
(Soft petals, yes, but not so barren quite,
Mingled with these, smooth bean and wrinkled pea;)
And go along with you ere you lose sight
Of what you came for and become like me,
Slave to a springtime passion for the earth.
How Love burns through the Putting in the Seed
On through the watching for that early birth
When, just as the soil tarnishes with weed,
The sturdy seedling with arched body comes
Shouldering its way and shedding the earth crumbs.

-- Robert Frost (1874-1963) poet, teacher, farmer and US Poet Laureate 1959-1960 and four time Pulitzer Prize winner.

Scripture reference: Matthew 13: 24-30, 36-43, Proper 11A

Sowing

In the stilled place that once was a road going down
From the town to the river, and where the lives of marriages grew
a house, cistern and barn, flowers, the tilted stone of borders,
and the deeds of their lives ran to neglect, and honeysuckle
and then the fire overgrew it all, I walk heavy
with seed, spreading on the cleared hill the beginnings
of green, clover and grass to be pasture. Between
history’s death upon the place and the trees that would have come
I claim, and act, and am mingled in the fate of the world.

-- Wendell Berry (1934- ), American poet, teacher, novelist, agrarian, farmer, and activist

Scripture Reference:  Matthew 13: 24-30, 36-43, Proper 11A

Sowing the Seed

Sowing the seed,
my hand is one with the earth.

Wanting the seed to grow,

my mind is one with the light.

Hoeing the crop,
my hands are one with the rain.

Having cared for the plants, 

my mind is one with the air.

Hungry and trusting,
my mind is one with the earth.

Eating the fruit,
my body is one with the earth.

-- Wendell Berry (1934- ), American poet, teacher, novelist, agrarian, farmer, and activist

Scripture Reference:  Matthew 13: 24-30, 36-43, Proper 11A

Elegy

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain,
My crop of corn is but a field of tares,
And all my good is but vain hope of gain;
The day is past, and yet I saw no sun,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

My tale was heard and yet it was not told,
My fruit is fallen, and yet my leaves are green,
My youth is spent and yet I am not old,
I saw the world and yet I was not seen;
My thread is cut and yet it is not spun,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

I sought my death and found it in my womb,
I looked for life and saw it was a shade,
I trod the earth and knew it was my tomb,
And now I die, and now I was but made;
My glass is full, and now my glass is run,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

-Chidiock Tichborne 1558-1586 (written on the even of his execution during the reign of Elizabeth I)

Scripture Reference: Matthew 13:24-30, 36-43,  Proper 11 A

Veni Creator

Come, Holy Spirit,
bending or not bending the grasses,
appearing or not above our heads in a tongue of flame,
at hay harvest or when they plough in the orchards or when snow
covers crippled firs in the Sierra Nevada.
I am only a man: I need visible signs.
I tire easily, building the stairway of abstraction.
Many a time I asked, you know it well, that the statue in church
lifts its hand, only once, just once, for me.
But I understand that signs must be human,
therefore call one man, anywhere on earth
not me—after all I have some decency—
and allow me, when I look at him, to marvel at you.

-Czeslaw Milosz (1911-2004), Nobel Prize winning Polish poet, exiled to the US

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.

The Last Supper

They are assembled, astonished and disturbed

round him, who like a sage resolved his fate,
and now leaves those to whom he most belonged,
leaving and passing by them like a stranger.
The loneliness of old comes over him
which helped mature him for his deepest acts;
now will he once again walk through the olive grove,
and those who love him still will flee before his sight.

To this last supper he has summoned them,
and (like a shot that scatters birds from trees)
their hands draw back from reaching for the loaves
upon his word: they fly across to him;
they flutter, frightened, round the supper table
searching for an escape. But he is present
everywhere like an all-pervading twilight-hour.

Here they are gathered, wondering and deranged,
Round Him, who wisely doth Himself inclose,
And who now takes Himself away, estranged,
From those who owned Him once, and past them flows.
He feels the ancient loneliness to-day
That taught Him all His deepest acts of love;
Now in the olive groves He soon will rove,
And these who love Him all will flee away.

To the last supper table He hath led.
As birds are frightened from a garden-bed
By shots, so He their hands forth from the bread
Doth frighten by His word: to Him they flee;
Then flutter round the table in their fright
And seek a passage from the hall. But He
Is everywhere, like dusk at fall of night.


--Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926), Austrian poet and novelist

Image: The Last Supper, by Vladimir Zuzurin

Lazarus

“No, Mary, there was nothing—not a word.
Nothing, and always nothing. Go again
Yourself, and he may listen—or at least
Look up at you, and let you see his eyes.
I might as well have been the sound of rain,
A wind among the cedars, or a bird;
Or nothing. Mary, make him look at you;
And even if he should say that we are nothing,
To know that you have heard him will be something.
And yet he loved us, and it was for love
The Master gave him back. Why did he wait
So long before he came? Why did he weep?
I thought he would be glad—and Lazarus—
To see us all again as he had left us—
All as it was, all as it was before.”

Mary, who felt her sister’s frightened arms
Like those of someone drowning who had seized her,
Fearing at last they were to fail and sink
Together in this fog-stricken sea of strangeness,
Fought sadly, with bereaved indignant eyes,
To find again the fading shores of home
That she had seen but now could see no longer
Now she could only gaze into the twilight,
And in the dimness know that he was there,
Like someone that was not. He who had been
Their brother, and was dead, now seemed alive
Only in death again—or worse than death;
For tombs at least, always until today,
Though sad were certain. There was nothing certain
For man or God in such a day as this;
For there they were alone, and there was he—
Alone; and somewhere out of Bethany,
The Master—who had come to them so late,
Only for love of them and then so slowly,
And was for their sake hunted now by men
Who feared Him as they feared no other prey—
For the world’s sake was hidden. “Better the tomb
For Lazarus than life, if this be life,”
She thought; and then to Martha, “No, my dear,”
She said aloud; “not as it was before.
Nothing is ever as it was before,
Where Time has been. Here there is more than Time;
And we that are so lonely and so far
From home, since he is with us here again,
Are farther now from him and from ourselves
Than we are from the stars. He will not speak
Until the spirit that is in him speaks;
And we must wait for all we are to know,
Or even to learn that we are not to know.
Martha, we are too near to this for knowledge,
And that is why it is that we must wait.
Our friends are coming if we call for them,
And there are covers we’ll put over him
To make him warmer. We are too young, perhaps,
To say that we know better what is best
Than he. We do not know how old he is.
If you remember what the Master said,
Try to believe that we need have no fear.
Let me, the selfish and the careless one,
Be housewife and a mother for tonight;
For I am not so fearful as you are,
And I was not so eager.”

Martha sank
Down at her sister’s feet and there sat watching
A flower that had a small familiar name
That was as old as memory, but was not
The name of what she saw now in its brief
And infinite mystery that so frightened her
That life became a terror. Tears again
Flooded her eyes and overflowed. “No, Mary,”
She murmured slowly, hating her own words
Before she heard them, “you are not so eager
To see our brother as we see him now;
Neither is he who gave him back to us.
I was to be the simple one, as always,
And this was all for me.” She stared again
Over among the trees where Lazarus,
Who seemed to be a man who was not there,
Might have been one more shadow among shadows,
If she had not remembered. Then she felt
The cool calm hands of Mary on her face,
And shivered, wondering if such hands were real.

“The Master loved you as he loved us all,
Martha; and you are saying only things
That children say when they have had no sleep.
Try somehow now to rest a little while;
You know that I am here, and that our friends
Are coming if I call.”

Martha at last
Arose, and went with Mary to the door,
Where they stood looking off at the same place,
And at the same shape that was always there
As if it would not ever move or speak,
And always would be there. “Mary, go now,
Before the dark that will be coming hides him.
I am afraid of him out there alone,
Unless I see him; and I have forgotten
What sleep is. Go now—make him look at you—
And I shall hear him if he stirs or whispers.
Go!—or I’ll scream and bring all Bethany
To come and make him speak. Make him say once
That he is glad, and God may say the rest.
Though He say I shall sleep, and sleep for ever,
I shall not care for that… Go!”

Mary, moving
Almost as if an angry child had pushed her,
Went forward a few steps; and having waited
As long as Martha’s eyes would look at hers,
Went forward a few more, and a few more;
And so, until she came to Lazarus,
Who crouched with his face hidden in his hands,
Like one that had no face. Before she spoke,
Feeling her sister’s eyes that were behind her
As if the door where Martha stood were now
As far from her as Egypt, Mary turned
Once more to see that she was there. Then, softly,
Fearing him not so much as wondering
What his first word might be, said, “Lazarus,
Forgive us if we seemed afraid of you;”
And having spoken, pitied her poor speech
That had so little seeming gladness in it,
So little comfort, and so little love.

There was no sign from him that he had heard,
Or that he knew that she was there, or cared
Whether she spoke to him again or died
There at his feet. “We love you, Lazarus,
And we are not afraid. The Master said
We need not be afraid. Will you not say
To me that you are glad? Look, Lazarus!
Look at my face, and see me. This is Mary.”
She found his hands and held them. They were cool,
Like hers, but they were not so calm as hers.
Through the white robes in which his friends had wrapped him
When he had groped out of that awful sleep,
She felt him trembling and she was afraid.
At last he sighed; and she prayed hungrily
To God that she might hear again the voice
Of Lazarus, whose hands were giving her now
The recognition of a living pressure
That was almost a language. When he spoke,
Only one word that she had waited for
Came from his lips, and that word was her name.

“I heard them saying, Mary, that he wept
Before I woke.” The words were low and shaken,
Yet Mary knew that he who uttered them
Was Lazarus; and that would be enough
Until there should be more… “Who made him come,
That he should weep for me?… Was it you, Mary?”
The questions held in his incredulous eyes
Were more than she would see. She looked away;
But she had felt them and should feel for ever,
She thought, their cold and lonely desperation
That had the bitterness of all cold things
That were not cruel. “I should have wept,” he said,
“If I had been the Master….”

Now she could feel
His hands above her hair—the same black hair
That once he made a jest of, praising it,
While Martha’s busy eyes had left their work
To flash with laughing envy. Nothing of that
Was to be theirs again; and such a thought
Was like the flying by of a quick bird
Seen through a shadowy doorway in the twilight.
For now she felt his hands upon her head,
Like weights of kindness: “I forgive you, Mary….
You did not know—Martha could not have known—
Only the Master knew…. Where is he now?
Yes, I remember. They came after him.
May the good God forgive him…. I forgive him.
I must; and I may know only from him
The burden of all this… Martha was here—
But I was not yet here. She was afraid….
Why did he do it, Mary? Was it—you?
Was it for you?… Where are the friends I saw?
Yes, I remember. They all went away.
I made them go away…. Where is he now?…
What do I see down there? Do I see Martha—
Down by the door?… I must have time for this.”

Lazarus looked about him fearfully,
And then again at Mary, who discovered
Awakening apprehension in his eyes,
And shivered at his feet. All she had feared
Was here; and only in the slow reproach
Of his forgiveness lived his gratitude.
Why had he asked if it was all for her
That he was here? And what had Martha meant?
Why had the Master waited? What was coming
To Lazarus, and to them, that had not come?
What had the Master seen before he came,
That he had come so late?

“Where is he, Mary?”
Lazarus asked again. “Where did he go?”
Once more he gazed about him, and once more
At Mary for an answer. “Have they found him?
Or did he go away because he wished
Never to look into my eyes again?…
That, I could understand…. Where is he, Mary?”

“I do not know,” she said. “Yet in my heart
I know that he is living, as you are living—
Living, and here. He is not far from us.
He will come back to us and find us all—
Lazarus, Martha, Mary—everything—
All as it was before. Martha said that.
And he said we were not to be afraid.”
Lazarus closed his eyes while on his face
A tortured adumbration of a smile
Flickered an instant. “All as it was before,”
He murmured wearily. “Martha said that;
And he said you were not to be afraid …
Not you… Not you… Why should you be afraid?
Give all your little fears, and Martha’s with them,
To me; and I will add them unto mine,
Like a few rain-drops to Gennesaret.”

“If you had frightened me in other ways,
Not willing it,” Mary said, “I should have known
You still for Lazarus. But who is this?
Tell me again that you are Lazarus;
And tell me if the Master gave to you
No sign of a new joy that shall be coming
To this house that he loved. Are you afraid?
Are you afraid, who have felt everything—
And seen…?”

But Lazarus only shook his head,
Staring with his bewildered shining eyes
Hard into Mary’s face. “I do not know,
Mary,” he said, after a long time.
“When I came back, I knew the Master’s eyes
Were looking into mine. I looked at his,
And there was more in them than I could see.
At first I could see nothing but his eyes;
Nothing else anywhere was to be seen—
Only his eyes. And they looked into mine—
Long into mine, Mary, as if he knew.”

Mary began to be afraid of words
As she had never been afraid before
Of loneliness or darkness, or of death,
But now she must have more of them or die:
“He cannot know that there is worse than death,”
She said. “And you…”

“Yes, there is worse than death.”
Said Lazarus; “and that was what he knew;
And that is what it was that I could see
This morning in his eyes. I was afraid,
But not as you are. There is worse than death,
Mary; and there is nothing that is good
For you in dying while you are still here.
Mary, never go back to that again.
You would not hear me if I told you more,
For I should say it only in a language
That you are not to learn by going back.
To be a child again is to go forward—
And that is much to know. Many grow old,
And fade, and go away, not knowing how much
That is to know. Mary, the night is coming,
And there will soon be darkness all around you.
Let us go down where Martha waits for us,
And let there be light shining in this house.”

He rose, but Mary would not let him go:
“Martha, when she came back from here, said only
That she heard nothing. And have you no more
For Mary now than you had then for Martha?
Is Nothing, Lazarus, all you have for me?
Was Nothing all you found where you have been?
If that be so, what is there worse than that—
Or better—if that be so? And why should you,
With even our love, go the same dark road over?”

“I could not answer that, if that were so,”
Said Lazarus,—“not even if I were God.
Why should He care whether I came or stayed,
If that were so? Why should the Master weep—
For me, or for the world,—or save himself
Longer for nothing? And if that were so,
Why should a few years’ more mortality
Make him a fugitive where flight were needless,
Had he but held his peace and given his nod
To an old Law that would be new as any?
I cannot say the answer to all that;
Though I may say that he is not afraid,
And that it is not for the joy there is
In serving an eternal Ignorance
Of our futility that he is here.
Is that what you and Martha mean by Nothing?
Is that what you are fearing? If that be so,
There are more weeds than lentils in your garden.
And one whose weeds are laughing at his harvest
May as well have no garden; for not there
Shall he be gleaning the few bits and orts
Of life that are to save him. For my part,
I am again with you, here among shadows
That will not always be so dark as this;
Though now I see there’s yet an evil in me
That made me let you be afraid of me.
No, I was not afraid—not even of life.
I thought I was…I must have time for this;
And all the time there is will not be long.
I cannot tell you what the Master saw
This morning in my eyes. I do not know.
I cannot yet say how far I have gone,
Or why it is that I am here again,
Or where the old road leads. I do not know.
I know that when I did come back, I saw
His eyes again among the trees and faces—
Only his eyes; and they looked into mine—
Long into mine—long, long, as if he knew.”

--Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869-1935), American poet and playwright, three time winner of the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry, four-time nominee for the Nobel Prize in Literature.

Scripture Reference: John 11:1-45, Lent 5A

Image: John O'Reilly, The Raising of Lazarus

My Own Heart

My own heart let me have more pity on; let
Me live to my sad self hereafter kind,
Charitable; not live this tormented mind
With this tormented mind tormenting yet.
I cast for comfort I can no more get
By groping round my comfortless, than blind
Eyes in their dark can day or thirst can find
Thirst ’s all-in-all in all a world of wet.

Soul, self; come, poor Jackself, I do advise
You, jaded, let be; call off thoughts awhile
Elsewhere; leave comfort root-room; let joy size
At God knows when to God knows what; whose smile
’s not wrung, see you; unforeseen times rather — as skies
Betweenpie mountains — lights a lovely mile.



--Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889), English poet, mystic and Catholic priest, located at Hopkins Poetry. This is one of his "dark sonnets" written in 1885.

Study Guide for this poem found here.

Scripture reference and lectionary link: Easter 3C, John 21:1-19

Image: "Christ's Charge to Peter," Raphael, 1515