These are some poems that have been on my mind the last couple of weeks. The first two came to mind during our Palm Sunday service. I thought of Mary Oliver’s poem when Jay mentioned in his sermon how difficult it is to get a donkey to do anything it doesn’t want to do. And I thought of George Herbert’s poem as we received communion that morning – God’s love made edible, Jesus’ life poured out that we might know forgiveness. The last poem, by Barbara Holmes, may be less familiar than the others. I saw it on social media last spring, soon after another shooting death, and it came to mind again this week as I sit with Jesus’ words of blessing for those who have not seen but have still believed (John 20:29).
The Poet Thinks About the Donkey
On the outskirts of Jerusalem
the donkey waited.
Not especially brave, or filled with understanding,
he stood and waited.
How horses, turned out
into the meadow,
leap with delight!
How doves, released from their cages,
clatter away, splashed with sunlight.
But the donkey, tied to a tree as usual, waited.
Then he let himself be led away.
Then he let the stranger mount.
Never had he seen such crowds!
And I wonder if he at all imagined what was to happen.
Still, he was what he had always been: small, dark, obedient.
I hope, finally, he felt brave.
I hope, finally, he loved the man who rode so lightly upon him,
as he lifted one dusty hoof and stepped, as he had to, forward.
- Mary Oliver
Love III
LOVE
bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back,
Guilty
of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
From
my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
If
I lack’d anything.
‘A
guest,’ I answer’d, ‘worthy to be here:’
Love
said, ‘You shall be he.’
‘I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,
I
cannot look on Thee.’
Love took my hand and smiling did reply,
‘Who
made the eyes but I?’
‘Truth,
Lord; but I have marr’d them: let my shame
Go
where it doth deserve.’
‘And know you not,’ says Love, ‘Who bore the blame?’
‘My
dear, then I will serve.’
‘You must sit down,’ says Love, ‘and taste my meat.’
So
I did sit and eat.
-
George Herbert
Joy Unspeakable
erupts when you least expect it;
when the burden is greatest,
when the hope is gone
after bullets fly.
It rises
on the crest of impossibility,
it sways to the rhythm
of steadfast hearts,
and celebrates
what we cannot see.
- Barbara
A Holmes
