Drawing my sword, I meant to say:

All this I’ll do, and more, for you;

Show me the battles, where the fights rage,

Tell me! – anything, I will gladly do.

Yet it was not enough, not what you desired:

The sword slicing right through Malchus’ ear.

You stayed my hand, pushed my sword to the side.

Peter, can you drink the cup that the Father

Has waiting for me? Stunned, I did not reply,

The soldiers approaching, your eyes upon me,

My sword at the ready, your hand blocking mine,

My pride screaming, Lord, can you not see?

You saw, I suspect, saw only too well,

For one moment beside the fireplace, I

Could not bring myself, when asked, to tell

That I knew you, and loved you; replied

When insistent questions fired, I swear

I do not know that man. You knew,

And said what would be, though I had declared

That I would walk through fire for you,

But the sword had been cold and dead in my hand

And the night air was empty, an open abyss,

Of watching for your silent, lamb-hearted plan,

Where swords were no match for a betrayer’s kiss.

is expected: the customary greeting,

the place so familiar

(we’ve been here before)

and his eyes unsurprised

at me or the soldiers

who hang back now, none too discretely, behind,

awaiting the signal,

and he too, somehow, watching my move,

always ahead and yet biding his time.

And then, we have action:

the moment of contact,

the last blush of friendship.

The cheek brushing mine is

tender and soft; the jaw that’s behind

is firm as a stone.

Gethsemane

And in the dark a kneeling man,

Arms outstretched,

Beads of sweat and blood comingled:

Father if this cup might pass…

Friends asleep while keeping watch;

Amid the cries for mercy, some

Lucid strains of prayer for them

Who cannot keep from sleeping now:

Not for some swift rescue plan

From high above, a spaceship or a floating boat

To take them from this troubled land,

No UFOs or rapture kits, just strength

To keep until the end. And in and out,

In and out, float the strains of prayer inside

Their sleeping heads, moments caught,

Recorded, treasured, other strains

Left unheard, strains of a heart ripped

Right in twain: the wills to live

And to obey; the cry for strength

To persevere, or be delivered:

A prayer which can but hope to be

Half-fulfilled and half-denied.

The wind was thick about me, and

in my mouth the taste of bread

dipped in bitter herbs,

his eyes like firm-set stones,

his words like needles,

prodding, prompting: Do it quickly,

what you’re about to do; the wind

as it blew disguised those words that lodged

themselves into my burning ears.

I walked, and pushed

these scents and tastes and

memories out into the night.

The darkness took them.

And so Jesus washes his disciples’ feet and declares that they are clean, though not all of them. One of them will betray him that very night.

Iscariot

He sat,

the water splashing about his feet,

the dust of the day now gone, though

not all,

and when

the bread came to be passed and dipped

in herbs of Egypt’s bitterness,

the one

who was

about to be betrayed took, knowingly,

the bread and, with a whisper to the friend

next to him

(The one

To whom I give this bread, he’s the one

Who lifts his heel against me) gave

the bread,

now bitter,

to him and said, Whatever you must do,

Do it quickly. A glance between them

and all

was done.

Rising, amid the ignorance of the many,

the curiosity of some, into the night he lifted

his heel

This one follows the story from Tuesday’s post. The story goes on to tell of Jesus sharing the Passover meal with his friends, and arriving at the dining room to find an awkward social faux pas has been committed.

The Dust and the Bowl

All things under him,

He looked:

The room prepared,

The table all laid out,

But the bowl for our feet,

Awkwardly,

Not there.

All things under him,

He rose,

Took the towel –

The uniform of one much lower –

Wrapped it around his waist,

And filled the bowl left,

Embarrassingly,

Empty.

All things under him,

He came,

To me, as to the others,

Gestured

Towards my feet

As if to wash them, and

I rose,

Uncomfortably,

Protested:

No, my lord, you shall not wash

My feet. I should

Be the one who washes you!

But then a flash – a moment in

My memory – some water and

A ragged man up to his waist:

No, my lord, you should be

The one baptising me!

The answer then, as now,

The same, that way he had

Of shaking all

Our expectations,

Showing, shaking all the muck

That lay inside our muted pride,

Displaying it, for grace to see.

And so he knelt,

All things under him,

And washed

My soiled feet

And with them all

The dust of my misplaced pride.

I’m doing my best to keep up with my rigorous poetry-writing schedule, and am currently working on today’s offering. However, here is a poem I prepared earlier (in January) which I intend to include when I put my Lent poems together. It fits better into the narrative flow than the poem for today – so here it is.

The Kernel

(John 12:20-33)

An insect buzzed around Andrew’s head

And the words of the Master made a similar sound,

Humming round and round in the noonday bustle,

My countrymen still waiting somewhere in the sidelines,

Our question not really answered,

The issue – as always – made a little less than clear.

Had he heard, or taken in, our request?

They had phrased it so simply –

Sir, we would like to see Jesus –

But protocol had somewhat baffled me;

They had come to me for ease of access: the face of a stranger

Somehow familiar, in a sea of unfamiliarity,

But I did not hold the clout, never did,

And so turned to Andrew who, it seemed to me, did,

But together we got nothing clearer.

Only this made sense: The hour has come

For the Son of Man to be glorified.

Yes, that much was clear.

But with budding fans

In the background, he did as he always did:

Taught us that which we could not see,

In words and figures which we could not grasp:

Unless a kernel of wheat falls to soil,

It remains only a single seed.

The image I knew; I had seen kernels

Sewn in the soil, and had seen harvests

Burst forth in vast, bright golden splendour.

But harvests of wheat? This wasn’t the time

For a lesson in wheat-growth. There were some men

In the fields, waiting, ripe to be reaped.

He lost me, I think, after the seeds,

The buzzing insect now down Andrew’s arm,

My new friends in the distance, checking their watches,

The Master pausing, once again, to pray.

Now my heart is troubled, he said; but why he did

I was, myself, too troubled to hear or understand,

And only the voice of thunder above could snap me

From my impatience, the anxiety of waiting,

And the buzz of the fly, or whatever it was –

I have glorified my name; I will glorify it again –

The crowd in hysterics, and the Master aglow

With the glory of the moment and the height of his call

And, his eyes lifted up to the heavenly source

Of the voice that had thundered, they seemed then to shine

With the tears that I had hardly noticed him crying,

And in the glow of the teardrop, I fancied I saw,

Two pieces of wood, crossed one on another,

And the glorious Son lifted up on each one.

I’m currently not exactly on track with my challenge to write 40 poems for Lent, but here is today’s offering. It takes the story of Jesus’ “triumphal entry” into Jerusalem and goes from there.

Battle Cry (Hosannah)

Hosanna!

Blessed is the king

(Behold him come,

Humble and riding on

A donkey, on the colt

Of a donkey!)

He who comes

In the name of the Lord:

Blessed is he.

Let our palms receive him.

Lift up your hands, we

Lift them to the Lord.

It is right to give

The praise of our hands.

Let our hands receive

The king of our land,

Triumphant!

On his steed!

Let our palm-fronds

Beckon him in!

Hosannah to our king!

Save us, king!

Ride into battle,

With us at your flanks,

Free the prisoners –

Their palms reach out to you.

Take us to our fortress;

Give us our commands,

Sound our battle-cry!

We are your bow,

We are your quiver.

Lift us in the palm of your hands,

Bend us, fire us forth.

Hosannah! Hosannah in the highest!

Behold, he comes!

Watch him come!

(Humble, on a donkey.

Blessed is he who comes

Blessed is he

Blessed is he who comes

In the name of the Lord,

Humble, riding on a donkey,

On the colt of a donkey,

Blessed is he.)

It’s now the Christian season of Lent, the forty days of preparation beginning (roughly) with Shrove Tuesday/Ash Wednesday and finishing on Easter Sunday; and I have set myself the fairly ludicrous task of having, by the end of Lent, a collection of forty poems, one for each day of the season. I’ve got a head start, having written a few Lent-themed poems in the past which I plan to include. Yet, even with that on my side, it’s a pretty ambitious project and I’m not sure I’ll succeed. But hopefully there’ll be some good poetry produced along the way. Here is one to start us off. It’s entitled “Spring”, not because it’s Spring where I’m writing (in the southern hemisphere!) but because the word “Lent” is an old English word used for Spring or “lengthening of days”.

Spring

The days are lengthening,

The frost is thawing,

The sun’s rising early,

And you – you are praying.

Our heartbeats are pounding,

Our spirits are expecting,

The temperature is rising,

And you – you, lord, are sweating.

Lazarus is walking,

The palm branches are waving,

The crowds are a-stirring,

And you – my lord, you’re weeping.

The donkey’s feet are thudding,

The Hosannahs are resounding,

The High Priest’s men are rumbling,

And you – dear lord, you’re leaving.

The traitor’s scent is nearing,

The officers are all jeering,

The fig tree is not blooming,

But you, my lord, are bleeding, bleeding.

You, sweet prince, are bleeding.