Back To the Beginning

So the disciple whom Jesus loved said to Peter, “It is the Lord.”
When Simon Peter heard that it was the Lord,
he tucked in his garment, for he was lightly clad,
and jumped into the sea.
—John 21:1-19

I went back to the beginning,
now that we had reached the end
and the sun kept right on spinning
over us bewildered men.
For we found the tomb was empty
that we'd laid his body in—
I went back to where he met me;
maybe there I could begin.

Without hope and without mooring
we caught nothing through the night,
but a voice came with the morning,
“Cast your nets upon the right.”
So, dawn-dazzled, we worked blindly
just to bring the nets on board.
John alone of us saw rightly:
“Peter, look: It is the Lord!”

Once, I thought it wouldn't faze me
just to walk upon the depths.
In the end, I begged him, “Save me!”
I was sinking to my death.
Now I see the friend who fed me,
and I plunge into the wave
sinking down without a tremor
like a body in a grave.

I am not afraid of dying,
now my death is bound with his.
In his mercy, I am rising
from the dark of my abyss.
Now his dawning fills my vision:
There is welcome in his eyes.
I have fallen; I am risen
in the morning light of Christ.

Christ Appears On the Shore of Lake Tiberias, By James Tissot, circa 1886/94 – Online Collection of Brooklyn Museum; Photo: Brooklyn Museum, 2008, 00.159.343_PS2.jpg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10904799

Empty Nets

Simon Peter said to them, “I am going fishing.”
They said to him, “We also will come with you.”
So they went out and got into the boat,
but that night they caught nothing.
When it was already dawn, Jesus was standing on the shore;
but the disciples did not realize that it was Jesus.
Jesus said to them, “Children, have you caught anything to eat?”
They answered him, “No.”
So he said to them, “Cast the net over the right side of the boat
and you will find something.”
So they cast it, and were not able to pull it in
because of the number of fish.
—John 21:1-19

When all we knew was lost and gone,
our world unsettled as the wave,
still, wonder met us with the dawn:
We looked into your empty grave.

We sail now as we've always sailed,
but all our nets come empty back—
yet we recall the baskets filled,
abundance you brought from our lack.

Our hunger you turned to a feast,
and even death you turned to life.
But we must go on restless seas:
Can you bring peace out of our strife?

A voice cries, “Cast your nets once more.”
We do, though we have fished all night—
and you are standing on the shore
and all the world is new and bright.

Now all that had been emptied out
is filled with more than it can hold.
The long night of our dread and doubt
pours forth the morning turning gold.

And there you stand, the Son of God,
inviting us to break our fast,
in restless seas our solid rock,
our certainty and home at last.

Painting by Henry Ossawa Tanner, circa 1913 – Google Arts & Culture — LAHsSESclImgWA, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=71770460

Mercy

You rose, O Christ, creation's brightest morn,
but still you show the marks where you were torn.
On us who wound you still as we did then,
breathe peace again.

On Thomas, smarting raw with newfound grief,
who could not bear the burden of belief,
when he cries out at last, “My Lord and God!”
show him your heart.

And Mary, who your messenger became,
was blind to you until you called her name.
She clutched at you: Her frightened grasp release
and give her peace.

Then Peter, too, who knew himself afraid
but when the cockerel crowed three times, “Betrayed!”
whose courage died, as it lived, by the sword:
Have mercy, Lord.

And even—in your mercy's farthest scope—
on him who dangled from a desperate rope,
poor Judas, come to greet you with a kiss:
Forgive him this.

For none of us can love you as we should;
for all of us, your grief turns to our good.
On us who take our comfort in your wounds, 
have mercy, too.

The Incredulity of Saint Thomas by Caravaggio, c. 1602 – Downloaded from Google Arts & Culture using dezoomify-rshttps://artsandculture.google.com/asset/der-ungl%C3%A4ubige-thomas-michelangelo-merisi-named-caravaggio/OAEjjQkNdRL9sg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=120649550

Where?

Where is the shining of the morn?
Where is the joy that should be born?
So long have these dry bones been numb,
even the songs that should adorn
the Easter dawn are lying dumb.
Where are the angels who should come

to raise my hope on Easter day?
My heart a stone to roll away,
it hides the hollow where I'm cleft,
as empty as the place you lay.
On glory's morning bare, bereft,
and when I seek you there, you've left.

Where is the love as strong as death
while all creation holds its breath
and hope lies lifeless in the grave?
Sinking beneath a shibboleth
the spotted, blemished flock to save,
leading them through the parted wave.

Then may you through the wound in me
walk dryshod—Moses through the sea,
or Joshua through Jordan's bed—
to let my pinioned limbs go free,
to bring my breath back whence it fled,
and raise me living from the dead!

Pierre Jean Van der Ouderaa – De heilige vrouwen keren terug van Christus’ graf – 1598 – Royal Museum of Fine Arts Antwerp – Royal Museum of Fine Arts Antwerp, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=134036734

Vine

As Eve and Adam ate and fell,
all swallowed by the gates of death,
their children in its shadow dwell:
The teeth of hell are locked and clenched.

Woe for the fruit that passed our lips!
Oh, that we would have kept our fast!
What would we give for one small sip
of Eden's streams—but they are past.

So we become the meat and drink
that gluts the hungry maw of death
yet never fills it to the brink.
If it could, death would swallow heav'n.

O Christ, whose fall was marked by ours,
you came to be death's bread and wine.
It swallowed you down, soul and scars,
and up you sprouted like a vine.

Around the gateposts then you wound,
your living bursting from the dead.
The gates of hell came crashing down,
and death was choked by wine and bread.

Out of the garden, you, firstfruits,
took Eve and Adam from the ground,
not broken reeds but living shoots,
and brought them where the sun shines out.

Now Christ the sower, Christ the seed,
you bear us on your upward climb
to where the harvest ever feeds
on heaven's living bread and wine.

Convolvulus vine twining around a steel fixed ladder By Namazu-tron – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=7282183

Lights

The candle flares and flickers;
the bright sun wheels and sets;
the torchlight leaps and shivers;
the coals bank, glowing red:
These dying flames and living
are shadows swiftly sped,
for Christ our light is risen
and death itself is dead.

And all these lights had promised
though fading from our view,
each burning match and star spark
said morning comes anew.
These hopes that shone in darkness
are hopes no more, are true,
for Christ our death has conquered
and shines out of the tomb.

Now day will have no ending
and night is luminous.
All lights that light foretelling
are no less glorious:
They shine out and we bless them
for still reminding us
that Christ, alive forever,
is shining in our dust.

Taper candles in a church. By Andrew Shiva / Wikipedia, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=52308084

The Rising Word

The Word that spoke the light
gave up his final breath
into the waiting hands of God,
but, oh, the light still shines.
The Word now speaks again,
its mighty echoes rolling on.

Before the stars shone down,
before the mountains rose,
he was, before the world began,
and after stars burn out,
when mountains are no more,
he is, beyond our human span.

But human he became,
a moment and a pulse:
Eternity would live and die.
A fingerprint, a name,
to feel earth's downward pull,
and yet, beyond all hope, to rise.

The author of all life
rewrites the book of death
upon the pages of our hearts.
All glory be to Christ,
world without end, amen,
who pulls us into endless song.

Christ Pantocrator By Unknown author – Unknown source, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=5820582

Witnesses

He said to them,
“These are my words that I spoke to you while I was still with you,
that everything written about me in the law of Moses
and in the prophets and psalms must be fulfilled.”
Then he opened their minds to understand the Scriptures.
And he said to them,
“Thus it is written that the Christ would suffer
and rise from the dead on the third day
and that repentance, for the forgiveness of sins,
would be preached in his name
to all the nations, beginning from Jerusalem.
You are witnesses of these things.”
Luke 24:35-48

We saw, but could not understand,
the works you did before,
until we saw your wounded hands
reach out to us once more.

We knew what every human knows,
that death would be our end,
but now we know you rose.  You rose,
and reach for us again.

And in this hour, your life and death
rewrite the world we knew.
Your peace has touched us with your breath,
and all things are made new.

So we become your witnesses
who have received your peace,
who know what your forgiveness is,
who shared your paschal feast.

And we will go, who are sent out,
to tell what we have seen:
that every tomb is open now,
and we have been redeemed!

Jesus giving the Farewell Discourse (John 14–17) to his disciples, after the Last Supper, from the Maestà by Duccio, 1308–1311By Duccio di Buoninsegna – Web Gallery of Art: Image Info about artwork, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=7922656

Showing

Amid our doubt and fear,
our loss of hope and trust,
amid our sorrows, you appear
and breathe your peace on us.

But we cannot receive
the peace that you would give
until somehow we can believe.
Lord, show us that you live!

For we have seen you die,
and death we know too well,
but if the dead can truly rise,
then raise us like yourself!

Give back the hope we lost,
as we lost Eden's dream:
not earthly hope, but hope transformed,
and every loss redeemed.

And you give us this grace,
untroubled by our tears.
You come to meet us face to face,
to calm us in our fears:

the breaking of the bread,
the showing of your wounds,
the feeling of your hands and breath,
and our lives are made new.

The Incredulity of Saint Thomas by Caravaggio (1601–02) – http://www.christusrex.org/www2/art/images/carav10.jpg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=6804893

Love Marked Out

Thomas, called Didymus, one of the Twelve,
was not with them when Jesus came.
So the other disciples said to him, “We have seen the Lord.”
But he said to them,
“Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands
and put my finger into the nailmarks
and put my hand into his side, I will not believe.”
John 20:19-31

When I look through weeping eyes, Lord,
aching for the light of day;
when I seek and cannot find you
in the shadows of the grave;
when I cannot recognize you,
Teacher, call again my name.

When I turn back to my old ways,
daunted in the face of dread,
wandering confusion's mazes,
tell me what the truth has said.
Come with me to my Emmaus:
Savior, stay and break the bread.

When all that my heart remembers
is your silence in the tomb;
sorrow drowns the burning embers
kindled in the upper room;
show me death was not the ending:
Lord and God, show me your wounds.

When my faith has failed to know you,
when I have to walk by sight,
call my name and bless the broken;
let me reach to touch your side.
Jesus, in your mercy, show me
love marked out for humankind.

Eglise du Saint-Sauveur, transept nord : l’incrédulité de Thomas. Photo By Cyr Manuel Evgenikos – Réunion des Musées Nationaux, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15154497