Keith Wallis
01-18-2008, 03:02 PM
JOURNEY THROUGH EASTER
1. Palm Sunday (Elation)
Behind, in the hot distance,
in dust and haze,
a mystery-cloaked cloud approaches,
a playful meander
breaking the monotony of day.
The anticipation of something special
catches the pulse and breath of pilgrim souls on the road to celebration.
Whispers grow to discussion,
opinion to argument ,
theories fleet between mouths and ears.
A dignitary on his way to the feast….
A groom going to a wedding……
A prince comes…….
All forward trudging stops -
expectant voyeurs,
glad for the chance to rest,
turn their weary bodies
to view the distant disturbance.
Children look up, their enquiring glances
piercing parental armour,
breaching their ignorance:
answers hidden in that veiling distance.
No music escapes the approaching cloud,
no prelude clue to a wedding party,
nor mournful wails precede the dust,
no funeric suffering or life-engulfing loss.
Occasional gasps ripple the lookers-on,
sidelined and puzzled.
Prophetic words begin bubbling
through grey remembrances
in uncoordinated trickles.
Palm leaf fans keep the heat at bay
as, foot-weary, they stand and stare
into the distance, into the past.
Someone glimpses a colt
fading in and out
of the approaching cloud.
Another makes an association,
begins a mental journey through scrolls,
half forgotten temple arguments.
A donkey, a king, Jerusalem,
meeting, melting, intertwining.
History, legend, prophecy, melding:
a whirlpool of delight and fear.
Discussions become awed whispers.
Palm leaf fans drop – early Autumn
coming upon that dusty pathway.
Glimpses become sightings.
This dust-encrusted party
unencumbered by the fatigue
that dogs other pilgrim marchers.
Half-heard phrases Chinese-whisper the roadside.
Noise becomes words, become shouted greetings:
“Praise to David’s Son”, psalmist’s words,
its speaker’s thoughts finding voice
in trembling recognition and surprise.
The party passes by,
and the sea of souls parts before its riding figure
taking their cues and echoing words
“Bless him who comes in the name of the Lord” ,
a clamour of “Hosanna”.
Each excited voice adding adrenalin
and volume,
accelerating the expectation,
the puzzlement, the wonder.
A prince rides into Jerusalem,
a groom comes for his bride;
this excited festival crescendos
in a swell that storms the gates of heaven
and will shatter the doors of hell.
2. Herein is pain (Rejection)
Herein is pain
in scourge and thorn
rended skin and sweated brow.
This is pain.
Herein is pain
in jagged nail and jarring cross
seething wound and searing heart.
This is pain,
Herein is pain
when Father turns his face
and darkness voids all love.
This is pain.
But here is pain
beyond imaginings:
you ignore
My communion invitation to life.
3. My heart in silence (Meditation)
My heart in silence humbly cried
the scene before - a wounded side
thorny crown and crucified.
No faded communion this
no winey blood nor half-baked body
no hiding place for self-pity
nor shield for rose-tinted eyes.
Thorny crown and crucified
the scene before - a wounded side,
my heart,
in silence,
humbly cried.
And hears your words,
“Father forgive”.
4. Fulfilment. (Completion)
“It is finished”
though not over.
Breathing, pulsing, life extinguished
in wicked celebration,
blood, pain, tears and darkness.
The false tree’s solitary leaf fallen,
Winter’s early breath contaminating Spring,
one Lamb at the Passover table,
one Messiah at this feast.
“It is finished.”
“It is finished.”
Beyond the curtain,
in the corridor between earth and heaven,
a chasm spans the walls,
no floor, no doors along this passageway,
no alternate route nor hiding room.
Here, Winter’s grabbing icy fingers reach up,
a pyroclastic engulfing tide.
Here is death,
icy, breath-burning death,
destroyer of soul,
foul bin of self-full aimlessness,
receptacle of hate.
Satan is not ruler here
but caretaker for the hurt and anger
and broken heart of God,
for which things heaven cannot be home.
“It is finished.”
The master builder looks back
at His newly constructed
delicate latticed bridge,
smiles and beckons.
Though not over,
It is finished.
5. On this hill (Contemplation)
In darkest daylight
with all sin revealed
the host is lifted high.
There is no melancholy melody to this sacrifice,
no quietude of choir-filled gentility
to align thought and soul.
This altar of absorbing pain
staggers the senses, grips the mind.
This is a solitary place.
A hermitage,
crowded with broken hearts
and wounded spirits,
oblivious of their fellows.
Let sense be dulled;
for here the sting of death
awaits those who turn their face
for easier vistas.
This unquiet beauty of wracked passion
steals the splendour of simpler creations
and scourges art and word and song.
Tears are the sea
from which this mast arises,
this lighthouse which signifies
wrecking rocks and vicious tides.
The storm which ravages here
breaches time and place,
pulsing of life and void of death.
A lightning flash shears the curtain,
the thunderous roar
a fanfare to sanctity.
On this hill eternity is on trial;
a single soul it’s witness,
the jury a world of closed eyes.
A timbered, suffering sacrifice
sees my small pain
and weeps
for me.
6. And you and I (Communication)
Six pain chasmed hours
on a day that has no beginning,
when shackled eternity
and Satan's dance
converge
upon a hill,
a love-nailed sacrifice
and the parched darkness of time.
Demons laugh,
while angels smile with tear filled eyes.
Blood's curse becomes wine's soothing balm
and broken body
the blessing of confessing bread.
Here at table
shadowy prophets
speak of the masquerade of lamb
and disguise of wine.
Unmasking Lamb and Blood
while hands that gently ministered
to dusty exposure
of tired feet
cleanse also the aching soul.
And you and I will feast,
as Satan starves,
and Alpha and Omega meld
in seamless garb.
There is no lottery here,
no dice to fall in random chance.
This is the meeting of truth and time,
where time is always
and truth is ever
and life is but Your breath away.
7. Friday night (Separation)
And after the pain, more pain.
Deep and dark
loathful separation.
The black clamour of blindness,
the taut grip of death.
Time stopped: a different eternity.
Memories of friends and Father,
the lifeline at finger’s edge.
In this red-black deep
there is no passion, no joy, no light:
just the wailing of souls
and a tomorrow that never dawns.
The most recent of memories hold no respite,
the grip of nail and thorn
no gentle reminder of love.
And that last kiss
exploded
in the collision of kingdoms.
Yet I will wait in this gaping darkness
for the greeting touch
of a Father in tears,
three days of eternity away.
8. Your temple (Resurrection)
Your temple
is a fragrant cloud,
a whisper in a breeze,
birdsong in an early evening,
a dreaming robe of daylight.
Citadel splendour,
vulgar stable,
high pinnacle or low valley,
their walls do not contain or glorify
nor wholly speak praise.
The crystal jewelled
golden altar
of a searching soul
is where communion takes place.
9. Easter Sunday (Revelation)
This is a strange compulsion:
to go to that dark place of death,
to reverence an empty body.
We go in sense of duty,
we go in the garb of tradition,
we go with no expectation.
There is easy access to this place:
no barring stone nor guarding soldier
sentry here.
This is the place of death.
Death is all there is to find here.
We can choose to stay,
to minister to nothingness
with our broken hands and shallow souls,
or we can seek the living
in resurrected power.
We can leave in disappointment or in awe.
Saying, “Good morning,” to the gardener
or, “Good God,” to the Lord.
10. This blood (Continuation)
This blood that stills my soul
balm to aching heart
and remover of scars
moves on through time's passageways.
This blood pretends for instant to be wine;
more palatable, less demanding,
tended by one wounded soul
to a thirsting brother.
This ointment of love
and picture of sacrifice
salves with cooling drop
all the condemnation of fear.
1. Palm Sunday (Elation)
Behind, in the hot distance,
in dust and haze,
a mystery-cloaked cloud approaches,
a playful meander
breaking the monotony of day.
The anticipation of something special
catches the pulse and breath of pilgrim souls on the road to celebration.
Whispers grow to discussion,
opinion to argument ,
theories fleet between mouths and ears.
A dignitary on his way to the feast….
A groom going to a wedding……
A prince comes…….
All forward trudging stops -
expectant voyeurs,
glad for the chance to rest,
turn their weary bodies
to view the distant disturbance.
Children look up, their enquiring glances
piercing parental armour,
breaching their ignorance:
answers hidden in that veiling distance.
No music escapes the approaching cloud,
no prelude clue to a wedding party,
nor mournful wails precede the dust,
no funeric suffering or life-engulfing loss.
Occasional gasps ripple the lookers-on,
sidelined and puzzled.
Prophetic words begin bubbling
through grey remembrances
in uncoordinated trickles.
Palm leaf fans keep the heat at bay
as, foot-weary, they stand and stare
into the distance, into the past.
Someone glimpses a colt
fading in and out
of the approaching cloud.
Another makes an association,
begins a mental journey through scrolls,
half forgotten temple arguments.
A donkey, a king, Jerusalem,
meeting, melting, intertwining.
History, legend, prophecy, melding:
a whirlpool of delight and fear.
Discussions become awed whispers.
Palm leaf fans drop – early Autumn
coming upon that dusty pathway.
Glimpses become sightings.
This dust-encrusted party
unencumbered by the fatigue
that dogs other pilgrim marchers.
Half-heard phrases Chinese-whisper the roadside.
Noise becomes words, become shouted greetings:
“Praise to David’s Son”, psalmist’s words,
its speaker’s thoughts finding voice
in trembling recognition and surprise.
The party passes by,
and the sea of souls parts before its riding figure
taking their cues and echoing words
“Bless him who comes in the name of the Lord” ,
a clamour of “Hosanna”.
Each excited voice adding adrenalin
and volume,
accelerating the expectation,
the puzzlement, the wonder.
A prince rides into Jerusalem,
a groom comes for his bride;
this excited festival crescendos
in a swell that storms the gates of heaven
and will shatter the doors of hell.
2. Herein is pain (Rejection)
Herein is pain
in scourge and thorn
rended skin and sweated brow.
This is pain.
Herein is pain
in jagged nail and jarring cross
seething wound and searing heart.
This is pain,
Herein is pain
when Father turns his face
and darkness voids all love.
This is pain.
But here is pain
beyond imaginings:
you ignore
My communion invitation to life.
3. My heart in silence (Meditation)
My heart in silence humbly cried
the scene before - a wounded side
thorny crown and crucified.
No faded communion this
no winey blood nor half-baked body
no hiding place for self-pity
nor shield for rose-tinted eyes.
Thorny crown and crucified
the scene before - a wounded side,
my heart,
in silence,
humbly cried.
And hears your words,
“Father forgive”.
4. Fulfilment. (Completion)
“It is finished”
though not over.
Breathing, pulsing, life extinguished
in wicked celebration,
blood, pain, tears and darkness.
The false tree’s solitary leaf fallen,
Winter’s early breath contaminating Spring,
one Lamb at the Passover table,
one Messiah at this feast.
“It is finished.”
“It is finished.”
Beyond the curtain,
in the corridor between earth and heaven,
a chasm spans the walls,
no floor, no doors along this passageway,
no alternate route nor hiding room.
Here, Winter’s grabbing icy fingers reach up,
a pyroclastic engulfing tide.
Here is death,
icy, breath-burning death,
destroyer of soul,
foul bin of self-full aimlessness,
receptacle of hate.
Satan is not ruler here
but caretaker for the hurt and anger
and broken heart of God,
for which things heaven cannot be home.
“It is finished.”
The master builder looks back
at His newly constructed
delicate latticed bridge,
smiles and beckons.
Though not over,
It is finished.
5. On this hill (Contemplation)
In darkest daylight
with all sin revealed
the host is lifted high.
There is no melancholy melody to this sacrifice,
no quietude of choir-filled gentility
to align thought and soul.
This altar of absorbing pain
staggers the senses, grips the mind.
This is a solitary place.
A hermitage,
crowded with broken hearts
and wounded spirits,
oblivious of their fellows.
Let sense be dulled;
for here the sting of death
awaits those who turn their face
for easier vistas.
This unquiet beauty of wracked passion
steals the splendour of simpler creations
and scourges art and word and song.
Tears are the sea
from which this mast arises,
this lighthouse which signifies
wrecking rocks and vicious tides.
The storm which ravages here
breaches time and place,
pulsing of life and void of death.
A lightning flash shears the curtain,
the thunderous roar
a fanfare to sanctity.
On this hill eternity is on trial;
a single soul it’s witness,
the jury a world of closed eyes.
A timbered, suffering sacrifice
sees my small pain
and weeps
for me.
6. And you and I (Communication)
Six pain chasmed hours
on a day that has no beginning,
when shackled eternity
and Satan's dance
converge
upon a hill,
a love-nailed sacrifice
and the parched darkness of time.
Demons laugh,
while angels smile with tear filled eyes.
Blood's curse becomes wine's soothing balm
and broken body
the blessing of confessing bread.
Here at table
shadowy prophets
speak of the masquerade of lamb
and disguise of wine.
Unmasking Lamb and Blood
while hands that gently ministered
to dusty exposure
of tired feet
cleanse also the aching soul.
And you and I will feast,
as Satan starves,
and Alpha and Omega meld
in seamless garb.
There is no lottery here,
no dice to fall in random chance.
This is the meeting of truth and time,
where time is always
and truth is ever
and life is but Your breath away.
7. Friday night (Separation)
And after the pain, more pain.
Deep and dark
loathful separation.
The black clamour of blindness,
the taut grip of death.
Time stopped: a different eternity.
Memories of friends and Father,
the lifeline at finger’s edge.
In this red-black deep
there is no passion, no joy, no light:
just the wailing of souls
and a tomorrow that never dawns.
The most recent of memories hold no respite,
the grip of nail and thorn
no gentle reminder of love.
And that last kiss
exploded
in the collision of kingdoms.
Yet I will wait in this gaping darkness
for the greeting touch
of a Father in tears,
three days of eternity away.
8. Your temple (Resurrection)
Your temple
is a fragrant cloud,
a whisper in a breeze,
birdsong in an early evening,
a dreaming robe of daylight.
Citadel splendour,
vulgar stable,
high pinnacle or low valley,
their walls do not contain or glorify
nor wholly speak praise.
The crystal jewelled
golden altar
of a searching soul
is where communion takes place.
9. Easter Sunday (Revelation)
This is a strange compulsion:
to go to that dark place of death,
to reverence an empty body.
We go in sense of duty,
we go in the garb of tradition,
we go with no expectation.
There is easy access to this place:
no barring stone nor guarding soldier
sentry here.
This is the place of death.
Death is all there is to find here.
We can choose to stay,
to minister to nothingness
with our broken hands and shallow souls,
or we can seek the living
in resurrected power.
We can leave in disappointment or in awe.
Saying, “Good morning,” to the gardener
or, “Good God,” to the Lord.
10. This blood (Continuation)
This blood that stills my soul
balm to aching heart
and remover of scars
moves on through time's passageways.
This blood pretends for instant to be wine;
more palatable, less demanding,
tended by one wounded soul
to a thirsting brother.
This ointment of love
and picture of sacrifice
salves with cooling drop
all the condemnation of fear.