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MAUNDY THURSDAY

Loved to the End: A Poem for Maundy Thursday
by Pamela C. Hawkins

Now before the festival of the Passover, Jesus knew that his hour
had come to depart from this world and go to the Father.
Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end.
— John 13:1-2

I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to be loved.
It is a memory deeper in me than marrow
or the worst pain I’ve ever felt
or the dark, damp curve where my
child’s life began –

Love – the real love that
whispers, yet has no voice;
knows, yet is without detail.

That kind of love is
what I’m thinking about these
long, thinning Jerusalem days.

How do I know what love can be?
Love that rises up against all the
storm’s fury that tells me I’m lost at sea –
not worth saving.
Love that curls up under my body,
turns me face up to air and light and sky;
sputtering,
gasping,
but alive.

How do I know to hold my breath until that love comes in like
the tide?
Is love the buoyancy?
the salt?
the current?
Is love the power greater than any Leviathan
I’ve ever been thrown against?

How do I know this Love?

 

GOOD FRIDAY

And Death Shall Have No Dominion
And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and
the clean bones are gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.
And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan’t crack;
And death shall have no dominion.
And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.
~ Dylan Thomas

 

EASTER SUNDAY

The jonquils. They come back. They split the earth with
    their green swords, bearing cups of light.
The forsythia comes back, spraying its thin whips with
    blossom, one loud yellow shout.
The robins. They come back. They pull the sun on the
    silver thread of their song.
The irises come back. They dance in the soft air in
    silken gowns of midnight blue.
The lilacs come back. They trail their perfume like a
    scarf of violet chiffon.
And the leaves come back, on every tree and bush,
    millions and millions of small green hands
       applauding your return.

~by Barbara Brooker from Selected Poems Copyright Future Cycle Press

 

Roll Away Your Stone

Roll away your stone, I'll roll away mine
Together we can see what we will find
Don't leave me alone at this time
For I am afraid of what I will discover inside

Cause you told me that I would find a hole
Within the fragile substance of my soul
And I have filled this void with things unreal
And all the while my character it steals

Darkness is a harsh term don't you think?
And yet it dominates the things I see

It seems that all my bridges have been burnt
But you say that's exactly how this grace thing works
It's not the long walk home that will change this heart
But the welcome I receive with the restart

~by Marcus Oliver Mumford, Dwane Johnstone,
Benjamin Walter Lovett, Winston Aubrey Aladar Marshall.