HANGING OUT THE ALLELUIAS

 

In the end of the Sabbath, as it began to dawn towards the first day of the week, came Mary Magdalene.

 The tomb, the tomb, that

Was her core and care, her one sore.

The light had hardly scarleted the dark

Or the first bird sung when Mary came in sight

With eager feet. Grief, like last night’s frost,

Whitened her face and tightened all her tears.

It was there, then, there at the blinding turn

Of the bare future that she met her past.

She only heard his Angel tell her how

The holding stone broke open and gave birth

To her dear Lord, and how his shadow ran

To meet him like a dog.

And as the sun

Burns through the simmering muslins of the mist,

Slowly his darkened voice, that seemed like doubt,

Morninged into noon; the summering bees

Mounted and boiled over in the bell-flowers.

‘Come out of your jail, Mary,’ he said, ‘the doors are open

And joy has its ear cocked for your coming.

Earth now is no place to mope in. So throw away

Your doubt, cast every clout of care,

Hang all your hallelujahs out

This airy day.’

from “Resurrection: An Easter Sequence” by the Irish poet, W. R. Rodgers, 1952

Art work:  Donald Jackson (British), St. John's Bible