Image: Stormy seas near Skellig Michael.
Daily Poems for Holy Week
Note: Because our visitors come from both hemispheres, we put up each poem a day in advance.
Note: Because our visitors come from both hemispheres, we put up each poem a day in advance.
HOLY SATURDAY
Image: 'The Veiled Christ' by Giuseppe Sanmartino (1753). Courtesy of the Sansevero Chapel, Naples.
OUR MASTER LIES ASLEEP
A song for Mary Magdalene and the Other Mary.
by Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)
Our Master lies asleep and is at rest;
His Heart has ceased to bleed, His Eye to weep.
The sun ashamed has dropt 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 the shadows creep.
Renew Thy youth, as eagle from the nest;
O Master, who hast sown, arise to reap:
No cock-crow yet, no flush on eastern crest;
Our Master lies asleep.
OUR MASTER LIES ASLEEP
A song for Mary Magdalene and the Other Mary.
by Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)
Our Master lies asleep and is at rest;
His Heart has ceased to bleed, His Eye to weep.
The sun ashamed has dropt 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 the shadows creep.
Renew Thy youth, as eagle from the nest;
O Master, who hast sown, arise to reap:
No cock-crow yet, no flush on eastern crest;
Our Master lies asleep.
GOOD FRIDAY
Image courtesy of Patsy Lynch [@patsylynch]
SHEEP AND LAMBS
By Katharine Tynan (1859-1931)
This poem by Irish poet, Katharine Tynan, was set to music by Scottish composer, Sir Hugh Roberton and is sung here by the Glasgow Phoenix Choir.
All in the April morning,
April airs were abroad;
The sheep with their little lambs
Pass'd me by on the road.
The sheep with their little lambs
Pass'd me by on the road;
All in an April evening
I thought on the Lamb of God.
The lambs were weary, and crying
With a weak human cry,
I thought on the Lamb of God
Going meekly to die.
Up in the blue, blue mountains
Dewy pastures are sweet:
Rest for the little bodies,
Rest for the little feet.
But for the Lamb of God
Up on the hill-top green,
Only a cross of shame
Two stark crosses between.
All in the April evening,
April airs were abroad;
I saw the sheep with their lambs,
And thought on the Lamb of God.
SHEEP AND LAMBS
By Katharine Tynan (1859-1931)
This poem by Irish poet, Katharine Tynan, was set to music by Scottish composer, Sir Hugh Roberton and is sung here by the Glasgow Phoenix Choir.
All in the April morning,
April airs were abroad;
The sheep with their little lambs
Pass'd me by on the road.
The sheep with their little lambs
Pass'd me by on the road;
All in an April evening
I thought on the Lamb of God.
The lambs were weary, and crying
With a weak human cry,
I thought on the Lamb of God
Going meekly to die.
Up in the blue, blue mountains
Dewy pastures are sweet:
Rest for the little bodies,
Rest for the little feet.
But for the Lamb of God
Up on the hill-top green,
Only a cross of shame
Two stark crosses between.
All in the April evening,
April airs were abroad;
I saw the sheep with their lambs,
And thought on the Lamb of God.
HOLY THURSDAY
My Soul is Sorrowful onto Death. James Tissot (1836-1902). Courtesy of the Brooklyn Museum.
GETHSEMANE
by Mary Oliver
The grass never sleeps.
Or the roses.
Nor does the lily have a secret eye that shuts until morning.
Jesus said, wait with me. But the disciples slept.
The cricket has such splendid fringe on its feet,
and it sings, have you noticed, with its whole body,
and heaven knows if it ever sleeps.
Jesus said, wait with me. And maybe the stars did, maybe
the wind wound itself into a silver tree, and didn’t move,
maybe, the lake far away, where once he walked as on a
blue pavement, lay still and waited, wild awake.
Oh the dear bodies, slumped and eye-shut, that could not
keep that vigil, how they must have wept,
so utterly human, knowing this too
must be a part of the story.
Mary Oliver, Thirst (Boston: Beacon Press, 2007).
GETHSEMANE
by Mary Oliver
The grass never sleeps.
Or the roses.
Nor does the lily have a secret eye that shuts until morning.
Jesus said, wait with me. But the disciples slept.
The cricket has such splendid fringe on its feet,
and it sings, have you noticed, with its whole body,
and heaven knows if it ever sleeps.
Jesus said, wait with me. And maybe the stars did, maybe
the wind wound itself into a silver tree, and didn’t move,
maybe, the lake far away, where once he walked as on a
blue pavement, lay still and waited, wild awake.
Oh the dear bodies, slumped and eye-shut, that could not
keep that vigil, how they must have wept,
so utterly human, knowing this too
must be a part of the story.
Mary Oliver, Thirst (Boston: Beacon Press, 2007).
WEDNESDAY OF HOLY WEEK: 'SPY' WEDNESDAY
THE JUDAS TREE
BY Ruth Etchells (1931-2012)
In hell there grew a Judas Tree where Judas hanged and died,
Because he could not bear to see his Master crucified.
Our Lord descended into hell, and found his Judas there,
For ever hanging on the tree grown from his own despair.
So Jesus cut his Judas down and took him in his arms,
“It was for this I came,” He said, “And not to do you harm.
My Father gave me twelve good men, and all of them I kept,
Though one betrayed and one denied, some fled and others slept.
In three days’ time I must return to make the others glad,
But first I had to come to hell and share the death you had.
My tree will grow in place of yours, its roots lie here as well,
There is no final victory without this soul from hell.”
So when we all condemn him as of every traitor worst,
Remember that of all his men, our Lord forgave him first.
BY Ruth Etchells (1931-2012)
In hell there grew a Judas Tree where Judas hanged and died,
Because he could not bear to see his Master crucified.
Our Lord descended into hell, and found his Judas there,
For ever hanging on the tree grown from his own despair.
So Jesus cut his Judas down and took him in his arms,
“It was for this I came,” He said, “And not to do you harm.
My Father gave me twelve good men, and all of them I kept,
Though one betrayed and one denied, some fled and others slept.
In three days’ time I must return to make the others glad,
But first I had to come to hell and share the death you had.
My tree will grow in place of yours, its roots lie here as well,
There is no final victory without this soul from hell.”
So when we all condemn him as of every traitor worst,
Remember that of all his men, our Lord forgave him first.
TUESDAY OF HOLY WEEK
THE LAST SUPPER
by Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)
translated by Albert Ernest Fleming
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.
[On seeing Leonardo da Vinci's "Last Supper", Milan 1904.]
by Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)
translated by Albert Ernest Fleming
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.
[On seeing Leonardo da Vinci's "Last Supper", Milan 1904.]
MONDAY OF HOLY WEEK
THE COMING
by RS Thomas (1913-2000)
And God held in his hand
A small globe. Look, he said.
The son looked. Far off,
As through water, he saw
A scorched land of fierce
Colour. The light burned
There; crusted buildings
Cast their shadows: a bright
Serpent, a river
Uncoiled itself, radiant
With slime.
On a bare
Hill a bare tree saddened
The sky. Many people
Held out their thin arms
To it, as though waiting
For a vanished April
To return to its crossed
Boughs. The son watched
Them. Let me go there, he said.
R S Thomas: Collected Poems 1945-1990 (Phoenix, 2000)
by RS Thomas (1913-2000)
And God held in his hand
A small globe. Look, he said.
The son looked. Far off,
As through water, he saw
A scorched land of fierce
Colour. The light burned
There; crusted buildings
Cast their shadows: a bright
Serpent, a river
Uncoiled itself, radiant
With slime.
On a bare
Hill a bare tree saddened
The sky. Many people
Held out their thin arms
To it, as though waiting
For a vanished April
To return to its crossed
Boughs. The son watched
Them. Let me go there, he said.
R S Thomas: Collected Poems 1945-1990 (Phoenix, 2000)
Image: Procession of the Palms by John August Swanson (1938-2021)
PALM SUNDAY
By Malcolm Guite
(Click here to listen to the poem being read by the author)
Now to the gate of my Jerusalem,
The seething holy city of my heart,
The saviour comes. But will I welcome him?
Oh crowds of easy feelings make a start;
They raise their hands, get caught up in the singing,
And think the battle won. Too soon they’ll find
The challenge, the reversal he is bringing
Changes their tune. I know what lies behind
The surface flourish that so quickly fades;
Self-interest, and fearful guardedness,
The hardness of the heart, its barricades,
And at the core, the dreadful emptiness
Of a perverted temple. Jesus come
Break my resistance and make me your home.
PALM SUNDAY
By Malcolm Guite
(Click here to listen to the poem being read by the author)
Now to the gate of my Jerusalem,
The seething holy city of my heart,
The saviour comes. But will I welcome him?
Oh crowds of easy feelings make a start;
They raise their hands, get caught up in the singing,
And think the battle won. Too soon they’ll find
The challenge, the reversal he is bringing
Changes their tune. I know what lies behind
The surface flourish that so quickly fades;
Self-interest, and fearful guardedness,
The hardness of the heart, its barricades,
And at the core, the dreadful emptiness
Of a perverted temple. Jesus come
Break my resistance and make me your home.