Easter Sunday

Be amazed, o my soul,
to have witnessed Life today.
Whisper the words of hope
that the winds shared
after Death’s visit.
Take now your
weariness
and lean into
the silent hymn of
a rolled-away stone:
“I am open again! No more
will Death echo here.” Sweet relief,
sighs my soul, to witness Life.

You are good, O my God,
in your works of Life each day.
You are beyond belief in
the knitting together
& the renewing.
How can it
be
that your
lively possibilities
surmount even Death?
“I am unending! I am always!”
My soul awes to say so: O my God,
you are wholly unparalleled.

Lent 40 (Holy Saturday)

Is it better
to have not been born
than to know this vacant day
when hope has died
and life is silent?

Is it better
to have not been born
than to walk in a world without love,
than to remain in a night
that has no dawn?

Is it better
to have not been born
than to be forsaken by God,
abandoned to evil,
left to be dust?

Lent 39 (Good Friday)

I wonder, Jesus,
that you did not save yourself;
not so much from the cross,
from pain or from death
— although the terror and agony
of those certainly call out
for liberation —
but I wonder
that you did not
save yourself
from us:
from our mob mentality,
from our voyeuristic thrill of abusing flesh,
from our violent fear
and our rebellion.
Forty years in the wilderness didn’t teach us.
Prophets and war couldn’t deter us.
The miracles of the Son of Man
couldn’t sway us
from making
gold idols of our egos
or clawing at the earth for ownership.
I wonder that you didn’t see
that we cannot be saved,
and save yourself
(save God)
instead.

Lent 38 (Maundy Thursday)

For this meal as it is broken,
and for the words here spoken;
For kindnesses received
and our renewals conceived;
O Lord, we give praise
and with open eyes, we gaze
on your body in this bread,
incarnate with every head,
within the roots & through the vine,
amidst all created life — divine!
Now bless us, O God, we pray,
and in our restless lives hold sway.
Let our hearts thus recreated
embody love unabated!

Lent 37

The worst part of those final days,
I think, must have been the knowledge
that your work wasn’t finished; there was more
— so much more — still to be done, still deeply needed.
But life got in the way of life, and death got in the way of life,
and you couldn’t accomplish it all. No wonder you were volatile
toward the end, and so impatient. Did you guilt yourself, Jesus,
for finitude? Did it add to your suffering to recognize that
you were not eternally able? Did you pray in the garden
not for relief but for more time to heal and teach?
How did you accept what was left undone?