Poems

Poetry for Good Friday

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

These seven poems and the song are based on Scriptures associated with “the Seven Last Words of Jesus” – strangely, there are eight lessons. The video includes reading of the Biblical texts, reading of the poems, and performance of the song, “As We Bring Him Down.” The poetry and the video were prepared for Good Friday in 2022; I am reposting them for Good Friday 2023.

First Reading: Luke 23:26-32

You strode those streets to teach,
to worship and to heal.
You strode those streets to cast
the moneychangers from the Temple courts.

And now, with failing strength, you stumble up the street,
too weak to bear the instrument of death.
Where once you rode in festival parade
they follow you to mourn for what has been and what will be.

Second Reading: Matthew 27:33, 34, 37

I’m sure that Pilate knew just what he said.
This is what happens to the ones who claim
they have no emperor but Caesar.
King of the Jews? Claim the title if you like,
but know that title brings you only here,
to die upon a cross, not reign upon a throne.
So Jesus, claiming spiritual rule, will offer up
his spirit to the Roman callousness and fear.

Third Reading: Luke 23:35, 36; 23:34, 39-43

How strange a criminal, whose deeds “deserved”
a death of torture, understood the reign of God
much better than the priests, much better than
the Roman Governor, much better than the monarch,
better even than the ones who followed Jesus.
“Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”
For Jesus, entry to that realm was not through gates of stone,
but gates of death. Beyond those gates our eyes
see only shadow, but to his, and to this criminal,
the shadows have been thrown by brilliant light.

Fourth Reading: John 19:25-27

Your friends look on, O Jesus. See?
Your mother Miriam: she weeps with Miriam
and Miriam. She will not urge you to a wedding feast,
not now, or prompt you to transform the vinegar
of death into a vintage rich with life.
Instead, as scarlet stains your hands and feet,
you transform stranger into son,
and woman into mother. Here amidst
the panoply of power and of hate,
you fill the purifying jars of love.

Fifth Reading: Luke 23:44-45

Who could not bear to watch from heaven?
Was it the sun, ashamed to the Savior die?
Was it the moon, unable to divert its gaze?
Was it the angels who had praised Messiah’s birth?
Or was it simply that the clouds must gather, too,
and witness bear, and mourn, and weep?

Sixth Reading: Matthew 27:46

Forsaken the Anointed One.
It seems so strange
that Son of God, Messiah
should cry out in
abandonment – or…
Does it?

Do we not hear the question echo
down the years, the centuries, and on,
“I was your God, and you my people,
and you turned away.”
We worship a forsaken God.

Seventh Reading: John 19:28-30

I could not blame you, Christ,
if you let “It is finished” be
your final word. You only came
to do us good, and we?
We desecrated you,
we desecrated the tree
on which we watched you die.

I could not blame you, Christ,
if you decided that we had
rejected your salvation – for we did –
and now could live in suffering – as we do.
And you, who stood for truth, nearly let
us live the lie, but you could not let
“It is finished” be the end.

Eighth Reading: Luke 23:46

“As We Bring Him Down”

The calloused feet that trod the miles.
The mobile lips the formed the smiles.
The fingers that bathed his friends’ toes
Are still – are unmoving –
Are released from the world and its woes.

[Chorus]

Hold him gently as we bring him down.
Throw aside the bitter thorn crown.
Lay him in the cloth we could find.
The world has been cruel to the kind.

The sparkling eyes that held yours in peace.
The worker’s hands that feared no disease.
The ears that heard more than we knew
Are still – are unmoving –
Are now just memory for a few.

[Chorus]

The open arms we have crossed on the chest
Where the loving heart beats not in his breast.
Draw the fabric across the dear face
So still – so unmoving
Oh to see it again. Oh to find such a place.

[Chorus]

Poetry and music © 2022 by Eric Anderson

Queries and Questions

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / Leave a comment

“When he entered Jerusalem, the whole city was in turmoil, asking, ‘Who is this?'” – Matthew 21:10

The whispers whip round the jam-packed streets –
Whispers? Well, no. The roar of the crowd
means a whisper is shouted, and may not be heard
by the hearer intended.

“Who is this?” they wonder, and some have their answers:
“He’s a healer,” say some, “with remarkable power.
So many return from him joyfully home!”
The sick cry “Hosanna! O save us!” today.

“Who is this?” they wonder, and some say, “A teacher,
a rabbi, a preacher with wonderful tales.
He’ll challenge you, certainly, if you are careless.
If you take time to listen, he’ll make you wise.”

“Who is this?” they wonder, and some say, “A monarch,
Messiah, Anointed One: he’ll free us from Rome.”
When they cry, “Hosanna!” it echoes with anger
and yearning for freedom from Empire’s yoke.

“Who is this?” they wonder, and some say, “A rebel,
a bringer of trouble, a sinner, a punk.
Just watch: all these people will raise swords tomorrow,
and on Tuesday the Romans will slaughter us all.”

“Who is this?” they wonder, and some have their answers.
“Who is this?” they ask and the rider is silent.
“Who is this?” they ask, little realizing the word
being spoken in silence on a donkey’s foal.

“Who is this?” they wonder, as the beast ambles on.
The Anointed One, yes, but the Humble One as well,
who would rule as a healer, and guide as a teacher,
but will save as One utterly faithful to God.

A poem/prayer based on Matthew 21:1-11, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year A, Sixth Sunday in Lent, Liturgy of the Palms.

The image is Entry of Christ into Jerusalem by Master of San Baudelio de Berlanga (1125) – photographed by Zambonia 2011-09-29, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=17158568.

Rattling Vision

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

“So I prophesied as I had been commanded; and as I prophesied, suddenly there was a noise, a rattling, and the bones came together, bone to its bone.” – Ezekiel 37:7

No vision, this… I smelled the chalky dust
that rose from dried and crackling bones.
I felt the beating sun as hot upon my frame
as it had been to strip the blood and sinew from
the moldering skeletons and leave
no sign of moisture there, just calcium
to rise and linger, pause and settle,
paste the taste of chalk upon my tongue.

“Can these bones live?” you asked. In this…
experience… how can I know what bones can do?
“Speak to the bones,” you urged, “and promise breath
and flesh and sinew. So they will know God.”
I spoke, and as I spoke, I heard the clattering rattle
of the desiccated bones, the scraping as they found
their place. I smelled the tang of blood and sinew, then
the salt as sweat appeared upon the new-formed skin.

“Speak to the breath,” you urged, “to all four winds,
and let the breath come to these slain, and live.”
I spoke again, and with a sigh the breezes swept
across the flesh-strewn valley. Now a moan
arose as lungs took air once more, and then
a sigh as breath emerged again between
the moistened lips. “These bones,” you said,
“they live to be a sign of hope for Israel.”

And so the… vision? faded. But its hope endures.
I know no valley filled with dusty bones
has gone from silence to a rattling sound,
nor of a sudden taken on the scent of sweat,
or speech emerged from lips new-formed
upon a skull. The slain are slain; the dead are dead.
But we who live may see a better day, and by
the power of God, the dead may rise to life.

A poem/prayer based on Ezekiel 37:1-14, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year A, Fifth Sunday in Lent.

The image is a synagogue wall painting at Dura Europos (ca. 244) in eastern Syria – Dura Europos synagogue, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=25556794.

Open and Closed

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

“But they kept asking him, ‘Then how were your eyes opened?'” – John 9:10

From a Jerusalem street to the Pools
of Siloam, spittle-moist dust awash
in the waters, a new sense a-born
to beguile his return to the place
where the Healer no longer is found.

“How’s this?” they asked. “How can your eyes
be opened? You’ve never known sight
since the day you arrived.” “The man Jesus
made mud and he told me to wash;
when I did, my vision was born.”

Hard hurrying queries and skeptical
silences, speech disbelieved or
discounted or scoffed. Speaking a
simple story of fresh mud washed free,
but the hearts, not the eyes, were fast closed.

Is it part of our nature, God, something
inherent that makes human beings choose
their answers ahead? We question
and search but will not find a truth
when we’ve chosen the word we’ll accept.

Praise God for your vision, O once
sightless man, but praise God the more
for your wide-open heart, to hear
and to trust the man Jesus who said,
“Go the pool now and wash.”

A poem/prayer based on John 9:1-41, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Fourth Sunday in Lent.

The image is The Blind Man Washes in the Pool of Siloam (Le aveugle-né se lave à la piscine de Siloë) by James Tissot (between 1886 and 1894) – Online Collection of Brooklyn Museum; Photo: Brooklyn Museum, 2008, 00.159.173_PS2.jpg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10957455.

Oh My, How Rude

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

A Samaritan woman came to draw water, and Jesus said to her, “Give me a drink.” – John 4:7

Not even a “please?” Oh my, how rude
to ask – demand – a drink of water here.
This well is deep, and every drop I raise
for you, you stranger, is a drop I need
to raise again, and carry to my home.
You should have brought a bucket, sir.

Not even a “please?” Oh my, how rude
to ask – demand – my time and labor here.
I’ve things to do now, Jesus, as you know
(and as you knew that woman did as well),
some obligations of which you’d approve.
What could I raise to satisfy your thirst?

Not even a “please?” Oh my, how rude
to hint – imply – that your refreshment does
much more than mine. Your invitation comes
with obligation, we both know, and yet…
And yet… I thirst, O Jesus, how I thirst.
May I be satisfied in you.

A poem/prayer based on John 4:5-42, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Third Sunday in Lent.

The image is Christ et la samaritaine, dessin by Guercino (ca. 1640) – http://www.culture.gouv.fr/public/mistral/joconde_fr?ACTION=CHERCHER&FIELD_2=AUTR&VALUE_2=GUERCINO IL, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3792308.

Changing, Changed, Changeless

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 7 Comments

“Nicodemus said to him, ‘How can anyone be born after having grown old? Can one enter a second time into the mother’s womb and be born?'” – John 3:4

You knew, Nicodemus, and Jesus knew you knew
that humans do not live a static life.
They grow, adapt. They shift and change.
Sometimes they even make a brand new start.

Sometimes they start as fresh as wandering wind,
as pure as water droplets glistening.
Where do they go? Who knows? The wind
goes where it will, just like the Holy Spirit.

Though none can set or stay the Spirit’s way,
one thing remains more firm than stone,
more sure than night or day. Yes, God so loved the world
not to condemn, but raise in radiant life.

A poem/prayer based on John 3:1-17, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Second Sunday in Lent.

The image is Nicodemus by JESUS MAFA, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=48385 [retrieved February 28, 2023]. Original source: http://www.librairie-emmanuel.fr (contact page: https://www.librairie-emmanuel.fr/contact).

Tempted

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

The tempter came and said to him, “If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of bread.” – Matthew 4:3

Temptation I recognize, Jesus
(except when I don’t).
My media diet is full to the brim
of temptation, allure:
“Buy this! Buy that! And life
will be better for sure!”

At times I am sure that
temptation disguises itself as need:
a tool or a book or a thing
enlivening live streams or
enhancing worship or
giving me something to think on anew.

Might temptation be present in
obvious choices, the things that we get
because Mom always got them?
The symbols we use, uniforms donned.
As I bow my head for a Sunday stole,
do I hear a reproach in its wavering fringe?

And then there’s temptation
I simply don’t recognize, and here I must ask:
What’s wrong with transforming the stones
into bread? Your need was as real as
the need of five thousand
or those who lived on the manna of Sinai.

Your retort to the Tempter – what does it mean?
We live by the words of the mouth of God?
Who would know that better than the Incarnate Word?
And yet you consumed the fruit of the land,
the bread from the ground, its flour ground
(as you knew) between stones.

As a test, I can pass this one, Jesus.
I can. There’s no sign the power
of stone-flour bread is mine to command.
But I wonder, Messiah. You spotted this test.
You chose your best course. You passed the exam.
But would anyone else? Could anyone else?

The Tempter was someone you knew to resist.
I don’t always know. Sometimes, but not always.
The action was one that would lead you astray.
The paths that I follow all seem to be straight… to start.
So I beg you to help me to choose the true bread,
for I don’t always recognize the voice of God.

A poem/prayer based on Matthew 4:1-11, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, First Sunday in Lent.

The image is an illustration in a Psalter ca. 1222 by an unknown artist – Self-scanned Rosa Giorgi: Bildlexikon der Kunst, Bd. 6.: Engel, Dämonen und phantastische Wesen, 384 S., Berlin: Parthas-Verlag 2003, ISBN 3936324042 / ISBN 9783936324044, S. 130, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=114178710.

Half Way Down

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

“As they were coming down the mountain, Jesus ordered them, ‘Tell no one about the vision until after the Son of Man has been raised from the dead.'” – Matthew 17:9a

Who would I tell, Jesus? What would I tell them?
“He glowed like a lamp in the sun, but brighter!”
“Moses was talking to him; so was Elijah!”
“A voice told me to listen from a cloud!”

They’d shake their heads to hear the first,
to hear the second, to hear the third.
The last and final sentence, though, they’d hear and smile:
“And when, pray tell, will you start listening?”

That question’s fair enough, I know.
I blurted out those words of invitation
rather than a question, like, “Should we
build booths for you, as you are here?”

So, Jesus, no, I’ve learned a little bit.
I’ll keep my silence ’till you give the word.
And listen. I will listen, sure as day.
And… maybe… wonder what you mean by “risen from the dead.”

A poem/prayer based on Matthew 17:1-9, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Transfiguration Sunday.

The image is Transfiguration by Latimore, Kelly, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=57114 [retrieved February 14, 2023]. Original source: Kelly Latimore Icons, https://kellylatimoreicons.com/.

Milk

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 5 Comments

“I fed you with milk, not solid food, for you were not ready for solid food. Even now you are still not ready…” – 1 Corinthians 3:2

A food of miracles, this milk, that comforts the miraculous.
The squalling ball of helpless and adorable fresh flesh would dwindle soon,
would cease its noise, but better is delivery of milk to toothless gums,
and better far is sleepy, satisfying milky burps.

So I am glad, nay o’er the moon with Paul, to feed
us on the milk of breasts Divine, that my poor soul
has sustenance, vitality, and vigor for
the growth – ah, yes, the growth – that Paul had promised.

So what, I ask, is this more solid food to feed the soul?
What is, I ask, more rich, more suited to the task
than milk? What is, I want to know,
the superfood of the soul?

For challenges arise, I see. If Paul demands
we lay aside the jealousy and quarrels, I
can only echo him. “What use are these?” we say.
“Has not the Savior shown us better ways?”

But rising beyond Paul, the words of Jesus daunt,
which set the bar for my comportment high.
Anger and insulting? Lay aside. Admit my wrongs.
Look not with lust. Say only yes or no and keep my word.

I sigh, aware the challenge beckons, and
I seek nutrition of the spirit that
will carry me along and to
the end.

A poem/prayer based on 1 Corinthians 3:1-9 and Matthew 5:21-37, the Revised Common Lectionary Second Reading and Gospel Reading for Year A, the Sixth Sunday after the Epiphany.

The image is Glass of Milk by NIAID, CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=82983911

Like the Noonday

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

“If you remove the yoke from among you,
    the pointing of the finger, the speaking of evil,
if you offer your food to the hungry
    and satisfy the needs of the afflicted,
then your light shall rise in the darkness
    and your gloom be like the noonday.”
– Isaiah 58:9b-10

“[Jesus said,] ‘You are the light of the world.'” – Matthew 5:14a

I’m trying, Jesus, I am surely trying
(and don’t think I can’t see and hear and feel
your smile twisting as you think
“Oh, yes. You’re definitely trying… all my patience!”).

I’m trying to remove the yokes. I pray
that you are seeing more success with that than I.
I’m trying to refrain from speaking evil, even if
it means I must lock down by tongue to silence.

And I’m trying, surely trying, Jesus,
to direct my pointing finger solely to myself,
to take the blame when it is mine,
and not add strife with blame to others.

But.

I’ve got to say that my hard-won restraint
has not been echoed widely, has it?
You and I both know that finger-pointing is
activity in which a multitude delights.

While I am struggling with my guttering light,
a horde of people praise the shadows, and
to my astonishment, they call the shadows light.
No hungry fed, no naked clothed, evil celebrated.

My finger itches, Jesus, with the urge to point
and then shout out (as once Isaiah was directed)
with trumpet calls: “For shame, you hypocrites!
You do not shine, you hide the light of God!”

And then I breathe in deep, down to the belly, as
I contemplate your failures, Jesus, in the world.
You called them out, the hypocrites who taunted you
as your light shone upon the torturer’s cross.

I’ll do my best to shine, I will. I’ll try.
I’ll feed that guttering wick and shield it from
the howling winds as best I can. But man…
My finger itches, Jesus. Yes, it surely does.

A poem/prayer based on Isaiah 58:1-12 and Matthew 5:13-20, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading and Gospel Reading for Year A, the Fifth Sunday after the Epiphany.

Photo by Eric Anderson.