Always

We may not always shiver
In the wind-blasts of the night;
We may not always grope our way,
In the absence of sunlight.
We may not always hunger
Through seasons of perpetual blight.
But we shall always wonder
At the absence of His sight.

We may not always groan and sigh,
And shed our solitary tears.
We may not always curse and cry,
But we shall always have our fears.

Our fears stick deep though warmth returns.
Our fears stick deep though light returns.
Our fears stick deep though bread returns.
Our fears stick deep:
Shall He return?

We shall not cease to wonder,
Though we may smile again.
We shall not cease to wonder,
Though we may feel some grace.
But we shall always wonder,
Until we see His face.

Silent Saturday

sleeping
out of the draft
fallen on the lee side of  the grave
the flags are lowered
the sails now slackened
the feet are covered
at last at rest

sleeping
out of the draft
fallen on the lee side of the grave

but unobserved
through granite walls
a genial breeze begins to play
all the trees pick up  their tiny ears
the fog  undulates itself into new shapes
wind, trembling, slowly strolls
across the graveyard
a grave's about to burst
before the rising sun

                                       [tr. from Frisian; Tiny Mulder]

Were You There?

Peter, James, and John were there.

It had been a long day, and it was night now.

Peter yawned, James rubbed his eyes, and John rested against an olive tree.

They fell asleep.

Jesus went off by himself, to pray.

When Jesus knelt and wrestled with God, he was alone.

The Man of Sorrows was alone.

He felt the awful weight of the cup, filled with the gall of the world’s evil.

“Drink ye all of it”: the betrayal, the spit, the blows, the scourge, the lies, the mockery, the thorns, the mob, the thirst, the blood, the nails, the absence of God…

His hands trembled, his voice shook as he pleaded: “Take this cup from me…”

The Son of God wrestled with his Father.

His three disciples slept.

They were the closest of his friends.

They had been with him to the mountain top and had basked in his glory.

But this was the Mount of Olives, shrouded in the darkness of impending doom.

They did not share in the agony of his sorrow.

They slept.

Already forsaken, their Lord cried to the Father:

“O Father, take this cup from me…yet not my will, but yours be done.”

 “Your will be done,” Jesus said, the hardest words he ever spoke.

Because he loved the Father.

Because he loved us.

Holy Week

As disciples of Jesus, we follow him on the highways and byways of his three years of ministry.

Along the way we learn much from the Teacher, this Rabbi in step with the Father.

We marvel at his words and are astonished at his actions.

But we are loath to follow him to the cross.

His torment is too painful, his agony too harrowing.


Yet it is at the cross that we feel closest to our Lord.

It is at the cross that we receive his love in fullest measure.

It is at the cross that we unload our own burden of pain and suffering.

It is at the cross that we are embraced by his compassion.

It is at the cross that we are healed.


Life prepares us for the cross and for the grave.

It does not prepare us for Easter morning.

We have no experience with open graves.

Joy at Easter comes by faith.

Faith in our crucified and risen Lord.


For that faith we pray this week.