The Barren Fields

And in the autumn of the afternoon,

He waits, he waits,

And watches for

The cattle yet to grace the hills,

The birds not seen yet in the skies,

The fig-tree failing yet to bud…

In distant skies are storks who know

The seasons they must follow, who

Obey the times appointed in their lives,

And doves, swifts, thrushes who all know

To move and sway with seasons’ changes,

Yet now the seasons change and halt

All of their own petulant accord.

The ground declares it should be soft,

The plants complain they are not growing,

Land which will not drink of rain decries

Its own sad, barren state…

In the fields he waits while all

Around him are the stumps of growth

Aborted and the fallow fields

Of careless inattention and

The hard, infertile land of dull

Hearts and deaf, enclosed ears.

Lift Your Eyes

Look: the harvest…

It looms, in minute kernels

Locked away in desert lands,

In hints of teardrops somewhere in clouds

Still too shy to show themselves…

Listen: the people…

The people cry:

The harvest is gone and still

We’re not saved.

The summer is passed.

Where are we now?

Somewhere you are,

In limbo’s dull season,

In valleys of bones and slaughter where

One day will the bridegroom come

Amid the songs of the joyful who

Await the feast that will then burst

From barren grounds and desert lands

And fountains which will break forth from

Clouds too shy now to show themselves.

There will then be feasting.

There will then be rain.

Another flashback: the new king arrives on his mule. But this is from the Old Testament and is a foreshadowing of the true king. This is Solomon who arrives, like his descendant would do centuries later, triumphantly but humbly to receive his kingdom.

Noise in the City

(1 Kings 1:32-53)

Lo,

The king-to-be comes

On the back of a mule,

His father’s mule,

And the people sing

And sound their flutes to say,

The new king is come!

Long live the King!

But hark: amidst the noise

Of the people and their flutes

In the city, the false priests and

The army cringe, mutter: What

Is that noise in the city? What

Is it’s meaning, all of this noise?

The news – a new king, the son

Of the King, the new King is come –

Meets with their anger. Surely not

Now! This cannot be true. And so

They cling to the horns of the altar

In dread and fear, cling and cringe

While in the city, the noise resounds.

Lo, the new king is come,

On the back of a mule.

On his father’s mule,

the son of the King comes.

This poem should probably belong earlier in the Lent sequence, but I hadn’t decided until recently where to place it. It best belongs, chronologically, between Jesus’ triumphal entry in Jerusalem and the Passover meal. Here it is now:

Late Winter: The Fig-Tree

The leaves were there.

They promised something –

Early fruit perhaps, the first sign

Of winter dying.

The Temple stood,

Before us, and behind us sang

The lingering, joyful echoes

Of crowds cheering.

The Lord approached

The fig-tree, hoping now

To find some sign, amidst the throng,

Of fruit appearing.

But though its leaves

Were full and lush, it

Bore no fruit. It was not the time

For figs growing.

Yet the Lord, angered,

Cursed the tree then

For all its false signs and overtures

Of fruit-bearing.

And into the Temple

He walked, whip in hand lest

He find there no signs either

Of fruit growing.

Then, barely strength enough in sinews to

keep swollen legs taut for standing,

lacerations up and down his beaten back,

cuts deep like caverns along his spine,

neck too torn to lift his head,

he was then crowned,

thorns turned inward on his brow,

nails hammered in to hands and feet,

a way of raising, lifting high,

for all to see, the one here crowned

with thorns and scorn, the one here called

King of the Jews,

and now his guards fight to defend

his robes, while governor and priests

debate the wording of his formal name

and title, and he, the lifted one, moans

and lifts his chest to breath, to groan:

I am thirsty.

His cup-bearer lifts some wine

upon a sceptre-sponge up to his lips;

acid burns in cracks and chafes,

the deep ravines of aching grace.

One final upwards groan to breathe;

The guards draw lots.

And so outside they took him where

He was stripped and whipped and there

Outside they, blind-man’s-bluff-like, watched

The one who knew all seem to flail

As taunting him they whipped some more,

Called him to say who struck him;

Yet amongst the turgid roar

Of soldiers at their grown-up games

And Pax Romana’s golden splendour,

There he sat, or crouched, or swayed

And let the whips eat into him,

The tunic ripped right off his back,

And turned aside to let them hit

His other side once they’d struck

The first one blind, half-dead besides;

And there he took all, gave all, let

Himself be nothing who was all:

A lamb without a blemish who

Did not lift his voice to shout.

The next two poems, I think, need to be published together, because they flow into each other and make less sense by themselves. Their titles comes from common Latin phrases – “Vivant Rex” meaning “Long live the King”, “Amicus Caesaris” meaning “Friend of Caesar” – and they continue the story of Pilate’s trial of Jesus, with a brief flashback to a time when Jesus was interrogated about correct conduct towards Caesar.

Vivant Rex

(John 19:1-16)

Long live

Long live the king

Long live King Caesar

Long live the king

Here is your king

Dressed in purple robes

Thorn-crown on his head

Here is your king

Bow before him

Here is your king, the

Tyrant governor said.

He’s not our king

We have no other king

We have no other king

But Caesar

What shall I do with him

Say what I shall do

Shall I set him free to you

Shall I set him free?

Crucify him

Free Barabbas

Crucify him

He’s no king

Crucify him, we have no

Other king but Caesar

What has he done

I find nothing

Wrong with him

What has he done

Have him whipped

Have him mocked

But let him go

I find no fault

If you free him

You are no

Friend of Caesar’s

You are no

Amicus Caesaris

(Matthew 22:15-22)

One day

They came to Him with a coin,

The standard Roman fare,

The face of Tiberius, the inscription of a god,

The pride of a tyrant all clearly displayed.

“Rabbi, what,” asked they, “should we do

For our taxes? Is it right for us to pay?”

The trap stretched out between them and Him,

A line of thread, so delicate,

So perfectly, expertly spread.

Perhaps he did not see the trap.

He showed no fear, no startled, darting

Eyes to say that he was stuck.

He took the coin and looked upon

The face, inscription, all its pride:

“Whose face is this upon the coin?

And this inscription: whose is it?”

The name stuck in their throats, a dry

Resentful lump: “Caesar’s,” said

The haughty ones. Their trap – so sure,

So sublime – what had it done?

His eyes, so certain, cut into theirs.

“Then give,” he said, “unto Caesar

What is Caesar’s. Give to God

What is God’s.”

He walked away, a line of thread

Dangling round his walking feet.

I feel that this poem might need a word of explanation, because I am very wary of it being misunderstood.

In the flow of the story, as we move from Pilate to the surprising response of the crowd to Pilate’s request to free Jesus, there is a need to hazard an explanation: why did the crowd call so vehemently for Jesus to be killed? It was certainly not a universal response among the Jewish people, many of whom either followed Jesus or were unaware of the debate that raged at that moment. But some did call for his death, and they were motivated at least in part by expediency: what Jesus represented seemed to threaten the already uneasy peace with Rome.

And so, at this point, we have two competing but intertwining interests: Pilate wanting to be seen by Rome as a good governor while also keeping the people happy; the people (some of them) wanting to avoid conflict with Rome but also wanting to protect their interests. Meanwhile, none seemed to understand the actual role that Jesus played: as the one perfect sacrifice for all involved – the perfect Passover Lamb.

Paschal Lamb

It is better, the priest said,

That one man die

Than all the nation

Be destroyed.

The words he spoke, we knew,

Were true. We’d seen before

The pagan hordes

Charge in with force,

Repel with scorn

Our frail attempts to

Stand up tall.

All the nation be destroyed:

Yes, we’d all

Seen that before:

In our minds, the

Shattered wall, the temple

Crushed to debris, and

The glory of the presence

Gone.

Better by far

That one man die.

He spoke a truth

We did not know,

But in the moment

All was clear:

Better for us

That one man die;

We raised assenting

Voices high.

Echoes off the palace walls

Shouted with us:

Crucify.

What is truth? he laughs,

And turns his back,

A final flounce, a sulky huff,

The provincial honcho,

His rabble-rousers angry,

Too gridlocked to say

What he really thought.

What has he done?

Got me up before breakfast,

Set my ulcer off;

This had better be worth it.

The holy huddle’s cynical tug

At his power-hungry heartstrings

Leaves him unimpressed:

King of the Jews?

The thought is laughable.

A backwards glance before he leaves the room:

The man in question stands

In silence, waiting,

His not-of-this-world truth kingdom

Nowhere to be seen here, save

The disquieting strength

In his firm-fixed gaze.

Everyone on the side of the truth –

Ha! the foolishness, the hubris –

Listens to me. The door slams.

The careworn governor storms outside,

Where the words, unheard, still resound,

A sharp clanging in his stubborn ears.

What is truth? he shouts again

To the swirling and the anger

And the morning air

And the biting accusation which

Even his power cannot acquit.

Do not let

Your hearts be troubled

My father’s house has

Many rooms

If it were not so

I would have told you

Do not fear; I

Will not forget you.

I go to make a

Place for you.

If it were not so

I would surely have told you

Do not fear, my

Sheep: you will scatter, but

I am the good shepherd.

I lay my life down for

My scattered sheep. It

Is surely so, for I have told you

Do not let this moment

Test you. Peter, I have prayed

That you will not fail

Peter, you must feed my lambs.

It will be so, for I will tell you.

And my word is true

Do not fear, I

Am the lamb who

Lays his life down for

The sheep. Do not fear;

I will not fail you.

Do not fear.

I am the truth

And Peter,

by the fireside,

warmed himself with lies,

though shivering

more with each

burning arrow he fired

into his side,

wincing and hiding,

the thrice-told lie

taunting in the air,

joining the chorus

of the rooster’s crow.