#passion cycle

[lux-in-tenebris-lucet]

“And on the seventh day God… rested.. From all His work that He had done.”

There is stillness in the garden, in the garden of the Lord,         Where the guards stand like the Cherubim who wield the flaming sword; Yet, the stories stand inverted in a world upset by sin,         For the soldiers do not keep Man out, but strive to keep God in.

But the God they guard is sleeping, and the sleep He sleeps is death;         And how strange that He is breathless Who woke Adam with His breath! And how strange that He is silent Who is God’s Eternal Word!         And how strange that in the darkness lies the Light of all the World!

And how fitting that He lies there– for the Sabbath is for rest,         And how busy He has been: behold His Hands, His Feet, His Breast! Let Him lie there, let Him lie there; it is seemly so to do,         (For His cold, dead lips, they smile: “See, I make all things anew.”)

~ Passion Cycle V: Holy Saturday

[comeunabarcanelbosco]

Just like this

[lux-in-tenebris-lucet]

The People of the Hebrews exult with shouts of mirth: Here comes the Lord Messiah, sent to liberate the earth! They scatter palms before Him, and with every gifted stem, They make for Him a highway into Old Jerusalem.

Their cries of exultation make the city's alleys ring: "Hosanna, Hosanna, Hosanna to the King!"

He rides a weary war-horse, the humble King of Kings, And there's sadness in His smile as He hears the praise they sing. His carpet's made of overcoats a-fraying at the hem, But indeed, the Lord is entering into Jerusalem!

How strange and how delightful is this great and awful thing-- Hosanna, Hosanna, Hosanna to the King!

"How dare you let these children acclaim you as the Lord? You must tell them to be silent lest they face the Roman sword!" "Amen, Amen, I tell you, give this moment unto them, For 'tis not long 'til you'll have your way in Old Jerusalem.

And I say, if they were silent, then the very stones would sing: Hosanna, Hosanna, Hosanna to the King!"

And Jesus sets His face unto their joyous hymns of praise, For He know they'll sing a different song within five fleeting days. But He is indeed a ruler, and a throne does wait for Him: And He rides unto the Cross that waits in His Jerusalem.

And long after men are silent, still the Heavenly Host shall sing, "Hosanna, Hosanna, Hosanna to the King!"

~ Passion Cycle I: Palm Sunday

[lux-in-tenebris-lucet]

It is Sabbath in the City, in the City of the King. In the City is a Mother, who is sick with suffering; In the City is a Mother who has lost her only Son– Yet, she whispers through her sorrow nothing but, “Thy Will be done.”

Peter sleeps a sleep of anguish, worn from weeping bitterly; And Judas hangs in silence from a twisted barren tree; And the Ten are lost in grieving, lost in guilt, and lost in fright; And John sits with his new Mother in the Sabbath candlelight.

~ Passion Cycle VI: Holy Saturday, from the other side of the Tomb

[lux-in-tenebris-lucet]

The voice that thundered, "Let it be," And 'twas, ex nihilo, The voice that asked, "Where are you?" With an overwhelming sorrow, The voice that said, "Go build an Ark Before I loose the Flood," Whispers now, "This is My Body And this is My Very Blood."

The hands that pointed Abram To a new land out of Ur, The hands that stayed the knife 'Fore Isaac's willing blood could spurt, The hands that wrestled Israel And blessed him at the end, Now break a precious, precious loaf And give it to His friends.

The God Whose name is Being Fed His people Bread from Heaven. The Man whose name is Savior Is Himself that True Bread given. Indeed, the Man and God are One, Who feeds men with His Flesh At this, His great Last Supper, The night before His Death.

~ Passion Cycle III: Holy Thursday

[lux-in-tenebris-lucet]

How shall I write a poem of the Triumph of the Lord? How shall I write a worthy hymn for He Who has Arisen? Can I, a lowly maiden, sing the praises of the Word And adequately give to Him a mite of what He's given?

For I am not an angel, and I cannot sing as they, And I cannot write poetry that soars, like dear Saint John, And I can barely stammer out my words of love and praise For He Who brought the race of men from darkness unto dawn.

I cannot say, for instance, when the Gates of Hell were rent; I cannot say the instant that the Son arose in glory; I cannot tell it worthily, and this is my lament; My lips, they are not worthy to sing this sacred story.

Therefore, I can but tell ye Christ arose this sacred morn, And though it is not good enough, I still will raise my voice: The Cross has flowered, and blossoms bloom upon the Crown of Thorn! Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia, and rejoice!

~ Passion Cycle VII: Easter Sunday

[lux-in-tenebris-lucet]

"Judas Iscariot, Judas Iscariot, Where were you? I've not seen you since late last night." "Just an appointment I had to be keeping, A job to be done that I had to do right."

"Judas Iscariot, Judas Iscariot, What were you doing, my brother, my friend?" "What I was doing is none of your business, Simply an errand I had to attend."

"Judas Iscariot, Judas Iscariot, What is that jangling, that silvery din?" "It's just thirty pieces I got for the Master, Just something I earned for my service to Him."

"Judas Iscariot, Judas Iscariot, Is something the matter? You're acting quite odd." "John of Capharnaum, enough with your questions-- All that I've done is between me and God."

~ Passion Cycle II: Spy Wednesday

[lux-in-tenebris-lucet]

The Sun in horror hides his face,

And fearful tremors shake the sod:

"Woe unto sinful Adam's race!

For thou, O Man, hast slain thy God."

~ Passion Cycle IV: Good Friday