Seven Last Words

There’s a handful of village churches clustered close together in the Surrey hills known as ‘The Leith Hill Group.’ On Good Friday, the two pieces of the Cross are brought over Leith Hill to St. James Church in Abinger by members of the other congregations, and banged together at the start of a midday service of meditation. Apart from the obvious symbolism of this ritual, it makes for a wonderful ramble across Vaughn Williams countryside on this most poignant day of the Christian calendar. For the evening, our friend Francis Cave had again organized a concert of music and readings at the little church perched above the village green in Holmbury St. Mary. Francis sings in the village choral society, and they had decided to present some of the more relevant pieces from Handel’s Messiah, in the first part of the programme. My wife Rachel, a violinist, played Abodah, a sombre Jewish lament by Ernest Bloch, for the second half of the programme, and I followed this by reading ‘Seven Sonnets for a Friday Afternoon.’ I had written these poems, based on Christ’s last words from the Cross, especially for this occasion. This had given me a tough creative challenge during lent, especially as I have barely written any verse at all up till now. However, one advantage of choosing this theme as my subject matter, is that the first line is already there for each poem, should one choose to use it as a starting point. Moreover, there is inherent drama and lyricism in the words of a dying man, especially those of the incarnate God. Yet therein also lies a stumbling block for the artist. The subject is rather too familiar, the path so well worn over the past couple of millennia. How can it be approached afresh? No doubt every clergyman asks this same question, when preparing sermons during Holy Week. I wrote the first six poems back in February, and felt vaguely positive about them until I wrote the seventh, which I realized was markedly better than my previous efforts.

It is finished.
The actor bows his head in silence.
The drama is done.
Folds of darkness shroud The Icon
Etched forever on those beating breasts
Recoiling from the tragic scene-
Deaf to the applause of Heaven.
At the Temple in the City
The curtain opens on another stage.
Now everyone’s an actor
With a role to play
In the Holy Company of Fools.
It is finished.
Let the Comedy begin!

The more I compared this to the others, the more dissatisfied I felt with the first six. Apart from a rather clumsy formlessness, they lacked any kind of integrity as a series. An obvious point about the last words of Christ, is that they are variations on a theme from the lips of one man, uttered at the climactic hours of his life. Back to the drawing board! So I began again, with this more successful one as my starting point, and worked backwards, totally rewriting the others.
The key which helped me unlock something of the mystery of Christ’s passion when writing this seventh poem, was using imagery from a world I understood, namely that of theatre and drama. I felt comfortable using this familiar language and playing with its metaphorical possibilities. Even though this is by no means an original approach to the Crucifixion, I feel it gave the poem an authentic, resonant tone, especially for a novice! The other discovery I made when I analysed the verse, was that I had unconsciously used the sonnet form. I decided to do keep to this form for the first six poems too, and again draw upon imagery from the arts, such as painting, sculpture, or music to suggest Christ’s profound awareness of the creative essence of his sacrifice. Restricting yourself to just fourteen lines, forces you to choose and use words sparingly, making sure each one earns its place in the great parade of sound and sense! Brevity is indeed the soul of wit, and perhaps of theology, too. Christ himself, was the master of economy, when for example, he reduced his great wisdom on prayer down to the ‘Our Father,’ or the secret of happiness to those pithy lines known as ‘The Beatitudes.’ ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.’ Indeed his seven last sayings are likewise remarkable for their extraordinary compression, notably that final sentence of just three words. ‘It is finished.’ The Gospel of John beautifully reflects Christ’s instinctive poetic vision when recording the many metaphors he used to reveal his unique nature as both man and God. ‘I am the light of the world’ etc. Yet above all, it is his fleeting life and ministry that speaks with the elegance and eloquence of a sonnet. Here is the son of man breaking bread with the outcasts of Palestine, walking the way to dusty death in Jerusalem, and then appearing on the sparkling shores of Galilee, where it all began. His life, death and resurrection as recorded by his followers trace the mystical cycle of spiritual growth and renewal. So with this in mind, I’ll say no more about the mystery of the Cross, other than to present the rest of the poems which I developed after I had completed the seventh. I was thrilled to discover they were well received by the congregation, along with Rachel’s Abodah, and the Choir’s Messiah. Happy Easter!


Sonnets for a Friday Afternoon

1. Father Forgive Them

Father forgive them; they know not what they do
When they deface the Son of Man and mar
The radiant Holy image printed there
The countenance divine, the morning star.

Your kingly brow is pierced by crown of thorns
To smear your royal cheek with stain of red,
Convert a gracious smile to gruesome leer,
A face of beauty, to a mask of dread.

They hail their work of art with mocking sign
And hang it on a hill for all to see.
Yet what they make, is but an image of themselves
Sundered from the Heart which set them free

And who they mar’s their Father and His Son
The Holy Spirit, God, the Three in One.

2. Paradise

This day you’ll be with me in paradise
Living monument to my Father’s grace
In a mansion set in fragrant gardens,
Eternal realm transcending time and place

Though now, your naked form, wasted and worn,
Wrenched wide in exposition of offence
Before the wrathful glare of baking sun,
Draws howls of horror from your audience

Yet, soon, this very day, your sacred soul
Shall be regarded in a softer light
At rest beneath an arc of weeping willow
With deep compassion and with tender sight.

For all my father fashions from this clay
I offer up in love, this Paschal day.

3. Mother Behold You Son

You were chosen as a virgin
To bear the pain of suffering
Wear the robes of mourning
Share with God, the role of grieving
For His children of the earth.

Yet in truth, my darling woman
Your part has just begun.
For He’s made you Queen of Heaven,
Enthroned till Kingdom Come,
Madonna to the host of nations,
Mother to His Sons.

The Lord has lifted up the humble
And sent away the proud.
He will clothe you with a light celestial,
He will cast away the shroud.

4. I Am Thirsty

From far and wide they came
Drawing water from The Spring;
Hungry minds and thirsty souls
For a taste of things to come.

So I turned their water into wine
Their stale and stagnant souls
Into a Holy temple washed with Love
Flowing streams within.

Now at last I’m thirsty too,
An empty well run dry.
My sap has withered in the heat
And died upon The Tree.

Yet spite of this, My God, I offer up to you,
This shattered pot of clay, to fashion it anew.

5. Why Have You Forsaken Me?

My God, my God why have you forsaken me
Your living Word, begotten Son?
Have you nothing left to say?
Are there no more words to scribe
Upon the tablet of my heart?
In You I’ve lived, and moved and breathed
According to Your inspiration
Through the passage of my days.
You spoke me into life through Your Divine command
And shaped my soul through every shifting scene
To this climactic hour.
Now I’m fixed in time, suspended in the dark,
Waiting for the sign that speaks my end-
That I may live it to the last.


6. Into Your hands

Into Your hands I commit my spirit.
O God in whom I trust.
Dying breath of sad lament
For this scarred and blood-soaked earth.
I have sighed and swayed with sacred songs
For those with ears to hear.
Songs to guide the wandering pilgrim
Lost along her way.
Songs to ease the troubled sinner
Shackled in his soul.
Now, this cadence is for You, my God
This cadence is for You.
May this ebbing sigh of grief inspire
A rousing ode to joy.