Easter resurrection is never as assured
as the arrival of Easter bunnies.
Clothiers and chocolate-makers alike yearn
for the season no less than every cleric.
And yet, in my experience, the Spirit
rarely blows according to the calendar,
much less on demand.
We live with ears open, eyes peeled,
hands and feet nimble, ready for
jolting news and a dash to one tomb
And this, apparently, is the purpose
of wakeful attention during the transition
from Good Friday’s darkness
to Sunday sunrise:
training in the art of vigilance,
as maidens with well-trimmed wicks.*
One empty tomb poses no threat
to present entanglements,
any more than annual and
crowds encroach on Easter morn.
It’s Easter’s aftermath
that threatens entombing empires
with breached sovereignty.
The Lamb Slain sings
of tribulation annulled,
of death undone,
of heaven reraveling the
sinews of soil and soul.
Humus and human alike,
“the earth and all that dwell therein,”
inherit the promise intoned
on that first dawn.
Breath on truculent waves:
be still, be still.
Wind on Emmaen travelers:**
Fear not, fear not.
©Ken Sehested @ prayerandpolitiks.org. Holy Week 2002.
*cf. Matt 25:1-13. **cf. Luke 24:13-35