The Church Of The Holy Rood -- Wool, Dorset, U.K.
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The Church Of The Holy Rood -- Wool, Dorset, U.K.
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Thoughts for Easter
The Killing
That was the day they killed the Son of God On a squat hill-top by Jerusalem. Zion was bare, her children from their maze Sucked by the dream of curiosity Clean through the gates. The very halt and blind Had somehow got themselves up to the hill. After the ceremonial preparation, The scourging, nailing, nailing against the wood, Erection of the main-trees with their burden, While from the hill rose an orchestral wailing, They were there at last, high up in the soft spring day. We watched the writhings, heard the moanings, saw The three heads turning on their separate axles Like broken wheels left spinning. Round his head Was loosely bound a crown of plaited thorn That hurt at random, stinging temple and brow As the pain swung into its envious circle. In front the wreath was gathered in a knot That as he gazed looked like the last stump left Of a death-wounded deer's great antlers. Some Who came to stare grew silent as they looked, Indignant or sorry. But the hardened old And the hard-hearted young, although at odds From the first morning, cursed him with one curse, Having prayed for a Rabbi or an armed Messiah And found the Son of God. What use to them Was a God or a Son of God? Of what avail For purposes such as theirs? Beside the cross-foot, Alone, four women stood and did not move All day. The sun revolved, the shadows wheeled, The evening fell. His head lay on his breast, But in his breast they watched his heart move on By itself alone, accomplishing its journey. Their taunts grew louder, sharpened by the knowledge That he was walking in the park of death, Far from their rage. Yet all grew stale at last, Spite, curiosity, envy, hate itself. They waited only for death and death was slow And came so quietly they scarce could mark it. They were angry then with death and death's deceit.
I was a stranger, could not read these people Or this outlandish deity. Did a God Indeed in dying cross my life that day By chance, he on his road and I on mine?
Edwin Muir One of my all time favourite books, The Killing, Meditations on the Death of Christ by Richard Holloway, starts with this poem.
So what do we make of this poem, and will we think about the enormity of all that Jesus did for us when we come together to celebrate the resurrection on Easter Sunday and in the days and weeks to come? It’s all to easy to leave all that we have been thinking about during Lent and Holy Week behind and get caught up in the hustle and bustle of everyday life, and whatever we have gained from this time to get submerged into getting on with life. But perhaps during the days and weeks ahead we can take time out to walk with Jesus, to immerse ourselves once again in the whole story, to explore where the cross impinges on our life. Are we involved in the story of the cross or are we like the poem suggests merely onlookers? Does what happened to Jesus touch us? Do we fall silent, or do we secretly wish that the miracle had been a little more convincing, so we don’t have to cope with those questions and doubts? Whatever our answers are to these questions, we are involved in the story of the cross, and Jesus doesn’t want us to be merely onlookers. Jesus wants his life and all that he did for us to be part of our story. Judy |
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