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HOLY WEEK SONNETS (cont.)

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BREAD AND WINE

The voice that spoke the blessing over bread

was the familiar voice. The hands that took

and gave it were still whole. But when he spoke

again, he called this newly broken bread

his body, broken so that they might live.

He took and blessed the final cup of wine,

mingled with water—made of it the sign

of how, living in him, God chose to give

God’s own life to our wavering, human brood.

Here, when proud independence fails us—here,

when our self-made prisons close us in—yes, here

God’s very life is offered us as food:

bread of human making, wine of delight

become a taste of God in this uncanny rite.oly Communion

HOLY WEEK SONNETS (cont.)

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LAST SUPPER

The disciples did not know this meal was last,

last of a chain that stretched back through the days

of walking with him on dusty rural ways,

held by his love though, in truth, they could not grasp

his teaching. Nothing prepared them for his strange

sorrowing exaltation, for his strong

appeal for love and unity, his long,

unfathomable farewell that slowly ranged

from his own loss to the Paraclete he would send.

He gave them nothing to ease their deep distress

except to say their suffering was his.

And, though he now began to call them “Friends,”

he rose alone among them from his seat

and, towel-girt, took the servant’s place and washed their feet.

HOLY WEEK SONNETS (cont.)

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IN THE TEMPLE COURT, II

The Temple filled its visitors with awe:

its mammoth stones, its exquisite detail,

its sea of bronze, its lamp, its golden veil,

all pointing to the majesty of God.

The disciples look on amazed. But, sorrowing,

he says to them, “Soon, now, the time will come

when all this splendor is to be undone,

not one stone on another. The borrowing

of sacred signs to make of them a mask

for human power scars and sullies them. 

How can they reveal the truth again?

Who can restore their sacramental task?

Not these proud worshippers, for all their lavish giving.

Just that one widow who’s surrendered all her living.”

HOLY WEEK SONNETS

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IN THE TEMPLE COURT, I

What then would be next? This violent

scatterer of coins and doves and sheep

must either lead an angry mob or keep

himself well hidden in some shepherd’s tent.

But here he sits as calm as any sage,

debating with all comers. Even those

who sneered at country preachers—even those

were forced to confront him on the public stage.

They hope to entangle him in argument.

He proves too quick, too deft. They find no cause

to call him a transgressor of the laws

and think their time and effort poorly spent.

If this was not the moment they could catch him,

they will try other means—and, meantime, watch him.

HOLY WEEK SONNETS

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Entry into Jerusalem

Hooves set in the ancient steps of royal mounts,

the she-ass climbs the way to the city gates,

bearing a king for whom no court awaits

commands or fights or renders its accounts.

The crowds make up a carpet of their cloaks.

They wave the palms of victory over him.

And children join in on a festive whim,

not caring whether it is truth or hoax.

Yet, giving rein to his imperial anger,

he clears the temple court, sends everything

flying—lambs on the hoof, doves on the wing—

upsets the table of the money-changer.

And thus, his parade of triumph scarcely done,

he’s launched his rule in a kingdom far from won. 

RUMINATIONS ON “LENT”

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“Lent”—from the same root as “lengthen.”

Days in spring grow longer. 

In Latin, Quadragesima, “Forty.”

It just seems longer.

“Lent”—no kin to “lentils,”

a modest, homely food, well suited to the season,

a reminder, perhaps, that spring, of old, could also be starving time,

as last year’s crops drew near exhaustion.

“Lent”—no kin to “lento.”

Yet, we do slow down to express our uncertainties,

to honor our human sorrows, 

to declare our longing. 

“Lent”—no verbal kin to “lend.”

And yet, still deeply linked.

All life is lent to us,

and we pay interest

in sorrow,

in suffering, it may be,

in hope,

in joy at Easter’s coming dawn.

STILLING THE STORM

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. . . there were other boats with them. Mark 4.36

How many people felt the wind

drop suddenly, saw the waves

flatten to a calm, marveled to find

themselves released from anxious hauling

on the oars—and never knew

the cause? Their boats all scattered by storm,

could any see him standing relaxed,

at ease, in his disciples’ craft?

Or hear his reproof? I think they only knew

they had received some unexpected grace.

SONNETS FOR MARY (concluding)

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GOING TO THE TOMB

You and the other Marys, Joanna, Salome—

you went to the tomb, with fragrant offerings

to honor the dead and mourn the sufferings

that buried all joy the day before yesterday.

You went to the tomb, unsure of gaining entrance,

unsure you could complete this final gift,

unsure that any rite would ever lift

your sorrow or restore the swaying balance

of your life. And yet, you went—and found the stone

rolled back and the angel waiting for you there—

oh! known and proven perilous messenger—

to greet you and to tell you he was gone.

Uncertain still, you turned back slowly toward the world

till, meeting him on the path, your tight-clenched hope at last unfurled. 

SONNETS FOR MARY (cont.)

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CRUCIFIXION

And there you stood, your little group of five

or six, as near as you dared, with the restive crowd

around you spitting and shouting out aloud

their insults, trying to prove themselves alive

by lording it over men condemned to die.

The women stood close to protect you. Young John,

of all the men, stood by you now alone.

You stood there as the sun crept through the sky.

And Jesus, failing, turned his head to you

and said (as if it were needed!), “Behold your son!”

“I see him too well,” you thought. But then to John,

“Behold your mother!” giving him to you. 

And here you found a sign that even in death

he gave you love and care with his last breath.

SONNETS FOR MARY (cont.)

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THE WAY OF THE CROSS

What heavier grief than watching your firstborn

dragged through charades of justice, wrung with pain

and weighed down with the cross on which he’ll hang,

limping to Golgotha? Your soul was torn

by every struggling step. You could do nothing

for him. And then—scarcely to be believed—

that African the Romans dragooned retrieved

the cross he’d dropped and bore it up like something

holy—alms to him who suffered, a grace

to you who suffered, too. And you found strength

to walk behind them down the terrible length

of road that led you to the killing place.

“Be it unto me according to your word.”

“And for your heart the piercing of a sword.”