Four Poems for Holy Week (plus nine more)

We have to stretch our words towards the mysteries of Holy Week. It takes the best of our humanity, hymns, music, poems, art, everything, strain to touch the glory of the Lord’s suffering.

Thanks to Pastors Braaten and Dodgers for this episode of The Gottesdienst Crowd talking about poetry and the Christian life. They offered these two beautiful poems for our Holy Week meditation.

First, an excerpt from John Donne’s La Corona (~1635) on the Crucifixion.

CRUCIFYING.

By miracles exceeding power of man,
He faith in some, envy in some begat,
For, what weak spirits admire, ambitious hate :
In both affections many to Him ran.
But O ! the worst are most, they will and can,
Alas ! and do, unto th’ Immaculate,
Whose creature Fate is, now prescribe a fate,
Measuring self-life’s infinity to span,
Nay to an inch.   Lo ! where condemned He
Bears His own cross, with pain, yet by and by
When it bears him, He must bear more and die.
Now Thou art lifted up, draw me to Thee,
And at Thy death giving such liberal dole,
Moist with one drop of Thy blood my dry soul.

(Read the entire La Corona here.)

Second, George Herbert’s Sepulchre for the collection The Temple (1633).

Sepulchre.

O Blessed bodie! Whither art thou thrown?
No lodging for thee, but a cold hard stone?
So many hearts on earth, and yet not one
Receive thee?
Sure there is room within our hearts good store;
For they can lodge transgressions by the score:
Thousands of toyes dwell there, yet out of doore
They leave thee.

But that which shews them large, shews them unfit.
What ever sinne did this pure rock commit,
Which holds thee now? Who hath indited it
Of murder?

Where our hard hearts have took up stones to braine thee,
And missing this, most falsly did arraigne thee;
Onely these stones in quiet entertain thee,
And order.

And as of old the Law by heav’nly art
Was writ in stone; so thou, which also art
The letter of the word, find’st no fit heart
To hold thee.

Yet do we still persist as we began,
And so should perish, but that nothing can,
Though it be cold, hard, foul, from loving man
Withhold thee.

(Here’s the link.)

Third and fourth, in 1827 John Klebe wrote a book of poems for the Sundays and festivals in the church year called The Christian Year, Thoughts in Verse. (Google Book link. Project Guttenberg link.) Here are his poems for Maundy Thursday and Good Friday.

Thursday before Easter.

As the beginning of thy supplications the commandment came forth, and I am come to shew thee; for thou art greatly beloved: therefore understand the matter, and consider the vision. Daniel ix. 23.
“O Holy mountain of my God,
How do thy towers in ruin lie,
How art thou riven and strewn abroad,
Under the rude and wasteful sky!”
’Twas thus upon his fasting-day
The “Man of Loves” was fain to pray,
His lattice open toward his darling west,
Mourning the ruined home he still must love the best.
Oh! for a love like Daniel’s now,
To wing to Heaven but one strong prayer
For God’s new Israel, sunk as low,
Yet flourishing to sight as fair,
As Sion in her height of pride,
With queens for handmaids at her side,
With kings her nursing-fathers, thronèd high,
And compassed with the world’s too tempting blazonry.
’Tis true, nor winter stays thy growth,
Nor torrid summer’s sickly smile;
The flashing billows of the south
Break not upon so lone an isle,
But thou, rich vine, art grafted there,
The fruit of death or life to bear,
Yielding a surer witness every day,
To thine Almighty Author and His steadfast sway.
Oh! grief to think, that grapes of gall
Should cluster round thine healthiest shoot!
God’s herald prove a heartless thrall,
Who, if he dared, would fain be mute!
E’en such is this bad world we see,
Which self-condemned in owning Thee,
Yet dares not open farewell of Thee take,
For very pride, and her high-boasted Reason’s sake.
What do we then? if far and wide
Men kneel to Christ, the pure and meek,
Yet rage with passion, swell with pride,
Have we not still our faith to seek?
Nay—but in steadfast humbleness
Kneel on to Him, who loves to bless
The prayer that waits for him; and trembling strive
To keep the lingering flame in thine own breast alive.
Dark frowned the future e’en on him,
The loving and belovèd Seer,
What time he saw, through shadows dim,
The boundary of th’ eternal year;
He only of the sons of men
Named to be heir of glory then.
Else had it bruised too sore his tender heart
To see God’s ransomed world in wrath and flame depart
Then look no more: or closer watch
Thy course in Earth’s bewildering ways,
For every glimpse thine eye can catch
Of what shall be in those dread days:
So when th’ Archangel’s word is spoken,
And Death’s deep trance for ever broken,
In mercy thou mayst feel the heavenly hand,
And in thy lot unharmed before thy Savour stand.

Good Friday.

He is despised and rejected of men.  Isaiah liii. 3.

   Is it not strange, the darkest hour
      That ever dawned on sinful earth
   Should touch the heart with softer power
      For comfort than an angel’s mirth?
That to the Cross the mourner’s eye should turn
Sooner than where the stars of Christmas burn?

   Sooner than where the Easter sun
      Shines glorious on yon open grave,
   And to and fro the tidings run,
      “Who died to heal, is risen to save?”
Sooner than where upon the Saviour’s friends
The very Comforter in light and love descends?

   Yet so it is: for duly there
      The bitter herbs of earth are set,
   Till tempered by the Saviour’s prayer,
      And with the Saviour’s life-blood wet,
They turn to sweetness, and drop holy balm,
Soft as imprisoned martyr’s deathbed calm.

   All turn to sweet—but most of all
      That bitterest to the lip of pride,
   When hopes presumptuous fade and fall,
      Or Friendship scorns us, duly tried,
Or Love, the flower that closes up for fear
When rude and selfish spirits breathe too near.

   Then like a long-forgotten strain
      Comes sweeping o’er the heart forlorn
   What sunshine hours had taught in vain
      Of Jesus suffering shame and scorn,
As in all lowly hearts he suffers still,
While we triumphant ride and have the world at will.

   His piercèd hands in vain would hide
      His face from rude reproachful gaze,
   His ears are open to abide
      The wildest storm the tongue can raise,
He who with one rough word, some early day,
Their idol world and them shall sweep for aye away.

   But we by Fancy may assuage
      The festering sore by Fancy made,
   Down in some lonely hermitage
      Like wounded pilgrims safely laid,
Where gentlest breezes whisper souls distressed,
That Love yet lives, and Patience shall find rest.

   O! shame beyond the bitterest thought
      That evil spirit ever framed,
   That sinners know what Jesus wrought,
      Yet feel their haughty hearts untamed—
That souls in refuge, holding by the Cross,
Should wince and fret at this world’s little loss.

   Lord of my heart, by Thy last cry,
      Let not Thy blood on earth be spent—
   Lo, at Thy feet I fainting lie,
      Mine eyes upon Thy wounds are bent,
Upon Thy streaming wounds my weary eyes
Wait like the parchèd earth on April skies.

   Wash me, and dry these bitter tears,
      O let my heart no further roam,
   ’Tis Thine by vows, and hopes, and fears.
      Long since—O call Thy wanderer home;
To that dear home, safe in Thy wounded side,
Where only broken hearts their sin and shame may hide.

Bonus, Pr Anthony Dodgers suggests these following poems for your meditation:

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