12th Century New Roman Mosaic of the Cathedral of the Nativity of the Most Holy Mother of God in Monreale in Sicily
Felix Jospeh Barrias, The Temptation of Christ by the Devil, 1860
James Tissot, Jesus Tempted in the Wilderness (Jésus tenté dans le désert), 1886-1894, one of 350 watercolors in his episcopal series on the life of Christ from the Bible, from the Brooklyn Museum of Art
James Tissot, Jesus Carried Up to the Pinnacle of the Temple (Jésus porté sur le pinacle du Temple), 1886-1894, from the Brooklyn Museum
James Tissot (French, 1836-1902). Jesus Transported by a Spirit onto a High Mountain (Jésus transporté par l'esprit sur une haute montagne), 1886-1894, from the Brooklyn Museum of Art
James Tissot, Jesus Ministered to by Angels (Jésus assisté par les anges), 1886-1894, from the Brooklyn Museum of Art
Ducci di Buoninsegna, detail, The Temptation of Christ, 1310
As we learned how to read, were we beginning to forget to look, our young eyes caught in tangles of print so that imagination was choked? Were we trapped at that remove from ourselves? Or did we begin to see a new way, with eyes that widened in the amazement of reverie, memory, invention? As we peered between the words, could we make out shapes and colors beyond them? What did our inside eyes make of the black marks on creamy paper, on onionskin? A dream of angels turned real, perhaps. A wooden boat on a lake. Three small loaves fragmented to fill all those empty mouths and baskets. Or this: a blind man opening his eyes so that the first face he sees - a vision, surely - is Christ's, spittle still shining on the quick fingers, his mouth saying urgently, Look! —Luci Shaw (1928- ) from Accompanied by Angels: Poems of the Incarnation
My heart be brave, and do not falter so, Nor utter more that deep, despairing wail. Thy way is very dark and drear I know, But do not let thy strength and courage fail; For certain as the raven-winged night Is followed by the bright and blushing morn, Thy coming morrow will be clear and bright; ’Tis darkest when the night is furthest worn. Look up, and out, beyond, surrounding clouds, And do not in thine own gross darkness grope, Rise up, and casting off thy hind’ring shrouds, Cling thou to this, and ever inspiring hope: Tho’ thick the battle and tho’ fierce the fight, There is a power making for the right. --James Weldon Johnson (1871-1938), African American poet, teacher, newspaperman, and lawyer
For S. S. How to love the Trinity, its vagueness, non-sense, God talking to God on the cross? Theological geometry, stumper of metaphor, God humbled to a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Only when I heard that voice singing Our songs shall rise to thee did I feel a welling of love that, at best, visits me occasionally in prayer, indwelling and expanding within me. Yes, God, the darkness hideth thee. Too often as I sit in the pews, nothing happens. Or worse, Nothing happens, doubt a scrim over every word I pray, a tepid mutter of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. But that hymn’s falsetto, surrender, the not- knowingness of it—Lord, though I can not see, I did hear a shimmer, some wick in me caught fire, and fear, that liar, left me, momentarily, free in the Holy, music, the blessed Trinity. --Anya Silver (1968-2018), American poet
For that one moment, ‘in and out of time’, On that one mountain where all moments meet, The daily veil that covers the sublime In darkling glass fell dazzled at his feet. There were no angels full of eyes and wings Just living glory full of truth and grace. The Love that dances at the heart of things Shone out upon us from a human face And to that light the light in us leaped up, We felt it quicken somewhere deep within, A sudden blaze of long-extinguished hope Trembled and tingled through the tender skin. Nor can this blackened sky, this darkened scar Eclipse that glimpse of how things really are. -- Malcolm Guite (1957- ), English priest, theologian, musician, and poet, from Sounding the Seasons.
When I consider everything that grows Holds in perfection but a little moment, That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows Whereon the stars in secret influence comment; When I perceive that men as plants increase, Cheered and check'd even by the selfsame sky, Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease, And wear their brave state out of memory; Then the conceit of this inconstant stay Sets you most rich in youth before my sight, Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay To change your day of youth to sullied night; And all in war with Time for love of you, As he takes from you, I engraft you new. --William Shakespeare (1564-1616), pre-eminent English playwright and poet
Behold that tree, in Autumn’s dim decay, Stripped by the frequent, chill, and eddying wind; Where yet some yellow, lonely leaves we find Lingering and trembling on the naked spray, Twenty, perchance, for millions whirled away! Emblem, also! too just, of humankind! Vain man expects longevity, designed For few indeed; and their protracted day What is it worth that Wisdom does not scorn? The blasts of sickness, care, and grief appal, That laid the friends in dust, whose natal morn Rose near their own; and solemn is the call; Yet, like those weak deserted leaves forlorn, Shivering they cling to life, and fear to fall! --Anna Seward (1742-1809), English poet and novelist
Three dark buds for the Trinity On one twig I found in the lining of my coat Forgotten since I broke them from the tree That grows opposite the RSA building At the top of Vulcan Lane — there I would lay down my parka On the grass and meditate, cross-legged; there was a girl Who sat beside me there; She would hold a blue flower at the centre of the bullring While the twigs on the tree became black And then slowly green again — she was young — if I had said, ‘Have my coat; have my money’ — She would have gone away; but because I gave her nothing She came again and again to share that nothing Like a bird that nest in the open hand. --James K. Baxter (1926-1972) New Zealand poet and teacher
Every morning the world is created. Under the orange sticks of the sun the heaped ashes of the night turn into leaves again and fasten themselves to the high branches-- and the ponds appear like black cloth on which are painted islands of summer lilies. If it is your nature to be happy you will swim away along the soft trails for hours, your imagination slighting everywhere. And if your spirit carries within it the thorn that heavier than lead-- if it's all you can do to keep on trudging-- there is still somewhere deep within you a beast shouting that the earth is exactly what it wanted-- each pond with its blazing lilies is a prayer heard and answered lavishly, every morning, whether or not you have ever dared to be happy, whether or not you have ever dared to pray. --Mary Oliver (1935- 2019), from Dream Work, 1986
Mother Mary, full of grace, awaken All our homes are gone, our loved ones taken Taken by the sea Mother Mary, calm our fears, have mercy Drowning in a sea of tears, have mercy Hear our mournful plea Our world has been shaken We wander our homelands forsaken In the dark night of the soul Bring some comfort to us all Oh mother Mary come and carry us in your embrace That our sorrows may be faced Mary, fill the glass to overflowing Illuminate the path where we are going Have mercy on us all In funeral fires burning Each flame to your mystery returning In the dark night of the soul Your shattered dreamers, make them whole Oh Mother Mary find us where we've fallen out of grace Lead us to a higher place In the dark night of the soul Our broken hearts you can make whole Oh Mother Mary come and carry us in your embrace Let us see your gentle face, Mary --Eliza Gilkyson (1950- ) American singer-songwriter, from the album Paradise Hotel, 2005. This song was written in response to the Asian tsunami in December 2004.
An interview with Eliza about the song as a vehicle for grieving was aired in NPR's All Things Considered, and can be heard here, and you can watch her talking about it below:
The most notable chorale arrangement is by Craig Hella Johnson, performed here by Conspirare, from their 2009 album A Company of Voices:
