The poem “Pieta” is a wonderful poem composed by Madeleine L’Engle on how much Jesus had transformed because of his resurrection. This is noticed most importantly by his mother, Mary, who in encountering her Risen Son, that he was not the same baby to whom she gave birth, nursed, cradled in her arms, raised, and saw executed. He had changed, and his change is a source of grief for her and a source of wonderment, as she once more, lets go of him when his mission is fulfilled.

This is a powerful, very powerful poem.

PIETA

The other Marys radiated joy.
The disciples found the truth hard to believe.
There had to be breaking bread, eating fish,
before they, too, even Thomas, were lit with
joyfulness. Not much was said about me.
I said good-bye to the son I carried within me
for nine months, nursed, fed, taught to walk.
On Friday when they took him down from the cross,
I held the son I knew,
recognizing him in my arms,
and never saw him again,
not my body’s child. How could I laugh, weep tears
of joy?
Like the others, I failed to recognize him;
the Christ who rose was not Bethlehem’s babe…
And it was right. For this was meant to be.
Here in my head I would not have had it otherwise.
But empty arms still longed for familiar flesh.
My joy, a sword that pierced through my heart.
I understood, more, perhaps, than the others
when he said that he could not stay with us—
that it was better if he went away,
was one again with God, his Father.
And when the Spirit came
I once again could love my son
and know my Lord. If Easter came later for me than
for the others,
its brilliance was as poignant and bright.

L’Engle, Madeleine. The Ordering of Love

One of the most moving poems to read and upon which to reflect is this poem composed by Denise Levertov, whose poetry is so wonderful, she has surpassed my love of William Butler Yeats. This poem is her reflection on Chapter 20 from Julian of Norwich’s vision of Jesus. It is powerful, so very powerful, and moving.

On a theme from Julian’s Chapter XX

Six hours outstretched in the sun, yes,
hot wood, the nails, blood trickling
into the eyes, yes –
but the thieves on their neighbor crosses
survived till after the soldiers
had come to fracture their legs, or longer.
Why single out this agony? What’s
a mere six hours?
Torture then, torture now,
the same, the pain’s the same,
immemorial branding iron,
electric prod.
Hasn’t a child
dazed in the hospital ward they reserve
for the most abused, known worse?
This air we’re breathing,
these very clouds, ephemeral billows
languid upon the sky’s
moody ocean, we share
with women and men who’ve held out
days and weeks on the rack –
and in the ancient dust of the world
what particles
of the long tormented,
what ashes.(1)

But Julian’s lucid spirit leapt
to the difference:
perceived why no awe could measure
that brief day’s endless length,
why among all the tortured
One only is ‘King of Grief’.
The onening, she saw, the onening
with the Godhead opened Him utterly
to the pain of all minds, all bodies
– sands of the sea, of the desert –
from first beginning
to last day. The great wonder is
that the human cells of His flesh and bone
didn’t explode
when utmost Imagination rose
in that flood of knowledge. Unique
in agony, infinite strength, Incarnate,
empowered Him to endure
inside of history,
through those hours when He took Himself
the sum total of anguish and drank
even the lees of that cup:

within the mesh of the web, Himself
woven within it, yet seeing it,
seeing it whole, Every sorrow and desolation
He saw, and sorrowed in kinship.

(c) 1984, 1985, 1986, 1987 by Denise Levertov (New Horizon Books)

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[1] ‘On a Theme from Julian’s Chapter XX.’ This is from the longer text of Julian of Norwich’s Showings ( or Revelations ). The quoted lines follow the Grace Warrack transcription ( 1901). Warrack uses the work ‘kinship’ in her title-heading for the chapter, though in the text itself she says ‘kindness,’ thus – as in her Glossary – reminding one of the roots common to both words.

Here is part three of my Holy Week reflection on the Songs of the Servant.

SONG 4: Is 49:1-3

Hear me, O islands,
            listen, O distant peoples.
The Lord called me from birth,
            from my mother’s womb he gave me my name.
He made of me a sharp-edged sword
            and concealed me in the shadow of his arm.
He made me a polished arrow,
            in his quiver he hid me.
You are my servant, he said to me,
            Israel, through whom I show my glory.

POEM

My vision is lifted to great heights
To behold all that which
Is beyond the horizon.
In the distance my eyes
Look upon that great tribes
And nations that populate the earth.
I call out to them, and though
So very far away, they hear me
As clear as if they were by my side,
For it is not my voice they hear,
But that of the voice of I AM within me.

It is Your voice, I AM,
Your gentle voice that coaxed me
Out of the womb of the earth;
Your voice, warm and sonorous,
That bestowed upon me my name.
Your voice dwells within me,
Like a beautiful melody from
Which I will never tire.

It is You, I AM, who raised me,
Taught me, hid me
And protected me,
And honed and sharpened my skills,
Like that of the finest sword,
Fashioned from the metal in the earth.
Placed in Your quiver,
I await, like that of a polished arrow,
Ready to be launched
From the archer’s bow,
To bring Your glory to
All nations and all tribes of the earth.

(c) 2022, by Robert C Wagner. All rights reserved.

I have placed two fragments of Isaiah’s Suffering Servant with a poem reflection here. The first is the second part of that which I posted on Monday, Isaiah 50: 7-9. The second song is from Isaiah 42: 1-7. Like I had on Monday, I will post the scripture passage and follow it with the poem reflection.

SONG 2: Is 50: 7-9

The Lord GOD is my help,
            therefore I am not disgraced;
I have set my face like flint,
            knowing that I shall not be put to shame.
He is near who upholds my right;
            if anyone wishes to oppose me,
            let us appear together.
Who disputes my right?
            Let him confront me.
See, the Lord GOD is my help;
            who will prove me wrong?

POEM REFLECTION

Like stones, rebukes are hurled at me
From the mouths of those oppose me,
Their vitriolic words hang in the air
Like a poisoned cloud.
Yet, I remain unharmed, no sign
Of their mark appears on me.
It is You, I AM, who is my help,
Who at my right side shields me from harm.
They dare not confront me,
Nor attempt to wrong me,
For You stand with me in all things.

SONG 3: Is 42:1-7

Here is my servant whom I uphold,
Upon whom I have put my Spirit;
            he shall bring forth justice to the nations,
Not crying out, not shouting,
            not making his voice heard in the street.
A bruised reed he shall not break,
            and a smoldering wick he shall not quench,
Until he establishes justice on the earth;
            the coastlands will wait for his teaching.

Thus says God, the LORD,
            who created the heavens and stretched them out,
            who spreads out the earth with its crops,
Who gives breath to its people
            and spirit to those who walk on it:
I, the LORD, have called you for the victory of justice,
            I have grasped you by the hand;
I formed you, and set you
            as a covenant of the people,
            a light for the nations,
To open the eyes of the blind,
            to bring out prisoners from confinement,
            and from the dungeon, those who live in darkness.

POEM REFLECTION

You are not my servant,
Rather, you are my beloved,
The one who is as close to me as breath,
Whose very presence bestows life.
It is in you that I have placed
The breath of the Universe,
With all its secrets and wisdom;
So that justice will reign over the chaos,
A justice that will reign
Not by force of might,
But through the compassion of your words
Which will bring light of the stars
To shine in lives starved by Darkness.

As with a wave of my hand,
I placed the stars in the heavens,
And brought forth life and crops
From the nothingness of soil,
My breath stirring within
Stilled bodies, life.
So will I form and shape you
Into my image, my beloved;
The broken, stony hearts
Of my people, will, by your words,
Be transformed Into hearts of flesh.
You will breathe into them
The light of my wisdom,
Which will free their blinded eyes
From the darkness of injustice,
And open the doors
of their self-imposed prisons,
from their cells of darkness and sin.

(both poems (c) 2022, Robert C Wagner. All rights reserved.)

In Catholic liturgies throughout Holy Week, we hear Isaiah’s Songs of the Suffering Servant. As part of a Holy Week observation this week, I will be spending times with the images that Isaiah has presented to us, and write a poem reflection on each song.

SONG 1:  Is 50:4-7

The Lord GOD has given me
            a well-trained tongue,
that I might know how to speak to the weary
            a word that will rouse them.
Morning after morning
            he opens my ear that I may hear;
and I have not rebelled,
            have not turned back.
I gave my back to those who beat me,
            my cheeks to those who plucked my beard;
my face I did not shield
            from buffets and spitting.

The Lord GOD is my help,
            therefore I am not disgraced;
I have set my face like flint,
            knowing that I shall not be put to shame. (NAB)

MY POEM REFLECTION ON THE PSALM

Oh my people,
As a mother hears the cries
Of her children, so have I
Heard your cries of pain.
Your misery, upon which
My gaze has seen, moves
My heart with compassion.
The despair of being forgotten,
Forsaken by the One
From whom you were created,
Swells within you, but
I have not forgotten you,
Nor will I leave you forsaken.
I wear your image, and,
In total solidarity with you,
Have put on your pain
Like one putting on a coat.
Its heavy weight of shame
Hangs from my shoulders,
Memories of the blows from abuse
Rain on my back
Like the lash of a whip.
My words to you are a balm,
Like that gently wiped
On the angry welts
Raised upon the skin;
A source of hope to lift
Your beaten spirits from the dust.
For I do not count you
Among the disgraced,
But among my most beloved.
And hold you as close to me
As my breath.

(c) 2022 by Robert C Wagner, all rights reserved.