Poems for Holy Week and the Week After

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