Exsultet!

I will celebrate the victory of my God in silence, and in song.

I will gaze upon the likeness

Of the one-who-was pierced.

I will touch the mystery

Of the dead-one-living.

I will trace his signature over my heart:
North to south
East to west:

King of Kings
Lord of Lords.

I will open my mouth to sing the serenade of the stars,

The song of the angels before the throne of God.

I will shout into the sunrise, a canticle for my King:
‘Rejoice! Rejoice!
The Lord is Risen –
Alleluia!’

I will bury myself in his joy,

And, with laughter,

I will rise again.

The King Sleeps

The King Sleeps

I will mine the agony of my God with a pick and a lamp.
I will hew the stones and teach them to cry ‘Hosanna!’
I will fashion a tomb to bloom in a garden
I will fracture the face of Israel with a blow
That will become an earthquake
To awaken the dead.

I will set my lamp beneath a splintered tree
I will close my ears against the forsaken cries of the Holy One
I will seal my mouth against the acrid taste of blood
I will shut my eyes to hide the corpse that hangs above me.
His eyes, not -closed. His body, not-clothed.

‘IT IS FINISHED!’

It’s over. God –
Adored, outpoured – passes over.
Numbed, beyond fear, I whisper a lullaby into the dark:
‘Be still. Be still.
Night dawns.
Death dies –

The King sleeps.’

Today, Palm Sunday, is a solemn day in the Christian liturgical calendar, as the entire record of Christ’s Passion is read during the celebration of the Mass. I wrote this poem for this day, the beginning of Holy Week. It draws on an ancient tradition that between Good Friday and Easter Day, The Christ slept in his tomb.