Thursday, April 9, 2009

"Seven Stanzas at Easter"

Unfortunately for me, Easter represents the time of the semester when I often want to sit down and cry because of all that needs to be written in the next couple of weeks. My mind is tired of reading and crafting words. This weekend Amy, a good friend and a fragment of the home I miss so much, is coming to visit, so I will set aside my books and papers to pause in expectancy for the rising hope of the empty tomb. But for now words fail me. So I offer instead the words of the poet and author John Updike in honor of Easter's approach.

“Seven Stanzas at Easter”

Make no mistake: if He rose at all
it was as His body;
if the cells' dissolution did not reverse, the molecules
reknit, the amino acids rekindle,
the Church will fall.

It was not as the flowers,
each soft Spring recurrent;
it was not as His Spirit in the mouths and fuddled
eyes of the eleven apostles;
it was as His Flesh: ours.

The same hinged thumbs and toes,
the same valved heart
that — pierced — died, withered, paused, and then
regathered out of enduring Might
new strength to enclose.

Let us not mock God with metaphor,
analogy, sidestepping transcendence;
making of the event a parable, a sign painted in the
faded credulity of earlier ages:
let us walk through the door.

The stone is rolled back, not papier-mache,
not a stone in a story,
but the vast rock of materiality that in the slow
grinding of time will eclipse for each of us
the wide light of day.

And if we will have an angel at the tomb,
make it a real angel,
weighty with Max Planck's quanta, vivid with hair,
opaque in the dawn light, robed in real linen
spun on a definite loom.

Let us not seek to make it less monstrous,
for our own convenience, our own sense of beauty,
lest, awakened in one unthinkable hour, we are
embarrassed by the miracle,
and crushed by remonstrance.

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