Tell them, by Edwina Gateley

 

Breaking through the powers of darkness
bursting from the stifling tomb
he slipped into the graveyard garden
to smell the blossomed air.

Tell them, Mary, Jesus said,
that I have journeyed far
into the darkest deeps I've been
in nights without a star.

Tell them, Mary, Jesus said,
that fear will flee my light
that though the ground will tremble
and despair will stalk the earth
I hold them firmly by the hand
through terror to new birth.

Tell them, Mary, Jesus said,
the globe and all that's made
is clasped to God's great bosom
they must not be afraid
for though they fall and die, he said,
and the black earth wrap them tight
they will know the warmth
of God's healing hands
in the early morning light.

Tell them, Mary, Jesus said,
smelling the blossomed air,
tell my people to rise with me
to heal the Earth's despair.

— Edwina Gateley

"Messenger" by Mary Oliver

 “Messenger”

My work is loving the world.

Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird—

    equal seekers of sweetness.

Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums,

Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?

Am I no longer young, and still half-perfect?

Let me keep my mind on what matters,

which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be astonished.

The phoebe, the delphinium.

The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.

Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart

   and these body-clothes,

a mouth with which to give shouts of joy

    to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,

telling them all, over and over, how it is

   that we live forever.

~Mary Oliver

It is the destruction of the world

 

It is the destruction of the world
in our own lives
that drives us half insane, and more than half.

To destroy that which we were given
in trust: how will we bear it?
It is our own bodies that we give
to be broken,
our bodies existing before and after us
in clod and cloud, worm and tree,
that we, driving or driven, despise
in our greed to live, our haste
to die. To have lost, wantonly,
the ancient forests, the vast grasslands
in our madness, the presence
in our very bodies of our grief.

— Wendell Berry

Letter from Presiding Bishop Sean Rowe on bombing of al-Ahli Hospital in Gaza

 

Palm Sunday