The disciples found the truth hard to believe.
There had to be breaking bread, eating fish,
before they, too, even Thomas, were lit with
joyfulness. Not much was said about me.
I said good-bye to the son I carried within me
for nine months, nursed, fed, taught to walk.
On Friday when they took him down from the cross,
I held the son I knew,
recognizing him in my arms,
and never saw him again,
not my body’s child. How could I laugh, weep tears
of joy?…

Read it all.

Michelangelo was only 24 years old when he completed the Pietà sculpture pic.twitter.com/huE6XqZ4tc

— Toe-Knee 🇨🇦 (@TonyLea17) April 26, 2024

_Moyst with one drop of thy blood, my dry soule_
Shall (though she now be in extreme degree
Too stony hard, and yet too fleshly,) bee
Freed by that drop, from being starv’d, hard, or foule,
And life, by this death abled, shall controule
Death, whom thy death slue…

Read it all.

Happy Easter! 🐣 Spring is here and with it a time for rebirth and new beginnings. 🌱 See these cute sheep for yourself at Tate Britain. 🐑 Our galleries our open all bank holiday weekend. 😍

​🖼️ 'Our English Coasts, 1852 (‘Strayed Sheep’)', William Holman Hunt, 1852 pic.twitter.com/xk5hinXRWO

— Tate Collective (@TateCollective) April 17, 2022

From there:

The silver trumpets rang across the Dome:
The people knelt upon the ground with awe:
And borne upon the necks of men I saw,
Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome.
Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam,
And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red,
Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head:
In splendour and in light the Pope passed home.
My heart stole back across wide wastes of years
To One who wandered by a lonely sea,
And sought in vain for any place of rest:
‘Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest.
I, only I, must wander wearily,
And bruise my feet, and drink wine salt with tears.’

"Tell us, Mary: say what thou didst see upon the way.
The tomb the Living did enclose;
I saw Christ's glory as he rose!" (from the Easter Sequence)#EasterAtHome
BL Add 49598; Benedictional of Æthelwold; 963-984; England, S; ff.51v, 52v @BLMedieval pic.twitter.com/c8JJU8LvQG

— Ennius (@red_loeb) April 12, 2020

O GLADNESS! that suspend’st belief
For fear that rapture dreams;
Thou also hast the tears of grief,
And failst in wild extreams.

Tho’ Peter make a clam’rous din,
Will he thy doubts destroy?
Will little Rhoda let him in,
Incredulous with joy?

And thus thro’ gladness and surprize
The saints their Saviour treat;
Nor will they trust their ears and eyes
But by his hands and feet.

These hands of lib’ral love indeed
In infinite degree,
Those feet still frank to move and bleed
For millions and for me.

A watch, to slavish duty train’d,
Was set by spiteful care,
Lest what the sepulchre contain’d
Should find alliance there.

Herodians came to seal the stone
With Pilate’s gracious leave,
Lest dead and friendless, and alone,
Should all their skill deceive.

O dead arise! O friendless stand
By seraphim ador’d—
O solitude! again command
Thy host from heav’n restor’d.

Read it all.

The joy and hope of #Easter is more than one day. It’s an entire season…between #EasterSunday and #Pentecost Sunday, when the beauty of #spring coincides with Catholics proclaiming, “Alleluia,” “Praise the Lord.” Bishop Sullivan's @cathstarherald column! https://t.co/5Orfg4FR8R

— Diocese of Camden (@camdendiocese) April 19, 2024

All year, death, after death, after death.
Then today look how majestically clouds float in the sky

–Barbara Ras (1949- )

The clouds are part of the play pic.twitter.com/gMbQzA7rK4

— Novine Goats 🐐 (@Novine_Mpereka) April 22, 2024

When I see blossoms spring,
And hear the birds’ song,
A sweet love-longing
Entirely pierces my heart,
All for a love new
That is so sweet and true,
That gladdens all my song:
I know in truth, iwis,
My joy and all my bliss
On him is all ylong. [is all because of him]

Of Jesu Christ I sing,
Who is so fair and free, [noble]
Sweetest of all thing;
His own ought I well to be.
So far for me he sought,
With suffering he me bought,
With wounds two and three;
Well sore he was swung,
And for me with spear was stung,
Nailed to the tree.

Read it all.

April come she will. pic.twitter.com/JiGFC98hOO

— Veritatis Cupitor (@English1Maiden) April 19, 2024

From there:

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.

Evening all how are you/? Mine has been soso, havent even started packing for my week trip up in the N York Moors! I must do it tomorrow 🙂 Here's one from last week when I got an okay sunset with the sun setting behind Pendle Hill. have a nice evening all 🙂 pic.twitter.com/tPcmkHrc9a

— David Oxtaby (@Disc_light) April 18, 2024

From here:Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store,
Though foolishly he lost the same,
Decaying more and more,
Till he became
Most poore:
With thee
O let me rise
As larks, harmoniously,
And sing this day thy victories:
Then shall the fall further the flight in me.

My tender age in sorrow did beginne
And still with sicknesses and shame.
Thou didst so punish sinne,
That I became
Most thinne.
With thee
Let me combine,
And feel thy victorie:
For, if I imp my wing on thine,
Affliction shall advance the flight in me.

"Tell us, Mary: say what thou didst see upon the way.
The tomb the Living did enclose;
I saw Christ's glory as he rose!" (from the Easter Sequence)#EasterAtHome
BL Add 49598; Benedictional of Æthelwold; 963-984; England, S; ff.51v, 52v @BLMedieval pic.twitter.com/c8JJU8LvQG

— Ennius (@red_loeb) April 12, 2020

From there:

As I had always known
he would come, unannounced,
remarkable merely for the absence
of clamour. So truth must appear
to the thinker; so, at a stage
of the experiment, the answer
must quietly emerge. I looked
at him, not with the eye
only, but with the whole
of my being, overflowing with
him as a chalice would
with the sea. Yet was he
no more there than before,
his area occupied
by the unhaloed presences.
You could put your hand
in him without consciousness
of his wounds. The gamblers
at the foot of the unnoticed
cross went on with
their dicing; yet the invisible
garment for which they played
was no longer at stake, but worn
by him in this risen existence.

On the Second Sunday after Easter:
"I am the good shepherd, and know my sheep, and am known of mine."

Thou spread'st a table in my sight;
Thy unction, grace bestoweth:
And O what transport of delight
From thy pure chalice floweth!
("The King of love my Shepherd is" – HW Baker) pic.twitter.com/sAqDaWHahv

— The Prayer Book Society (@prayerbook_soc) April 14, 2024

From here:

Moist with one drop of thy blood, my dry soul
Shall (though she now be in extreme degree
Too stony hard, and yet too fleshly,) be
Freed by that drop, from being starved, hard, or foul,
And life, by this death abled, shall control
Death, whom thy death slew; nor shall to me
Fear of first or last death, bring misery,
If in thy little book my name thou enrol,
Flesh in that long sleep is not putrefied,
But made that there, of which, and for which ’twas;
Nor can by other means be glorified.
May then sin’s sleep, and death’s soon from me pass,
That waked from both, I again risen may
Salute the last, and everlasting day.

Resurrection of Christ by Bartolome Esteban Murillo. pic.twitter.com/88CyAPEScA

— Christian Culture (@Christian8Pics) October 14, 2016

Read it all.

"Done is a battle on the dragon black,
Our champion Christ confoundit has his force;
The yetis of hell are broken with a crack,
The sign triumphal raisit is of the cross"
– William Dunbar (c. 1500)

Art: Albrecht Dürer, "The Harrowing of Hell" (1512) pic.twitter.com/FnneczvWUw

— Matthew H. Young (@matthenryyoung) March 30, 2024

Tomb, thou shalt not hold Him longer;
Death is strong, but Life is stronger;
Stronger than the dark, the light;
Stronger than the wrong, the right.
Faith and Hope triumphant say,
Christ will rise on Easter-Day.

While the patient earth lies waking,
Till the morning shall be breaking,
Shuddering ‘neath the burden dread
Of her Master, cold and dead,
Hark! she hears the angels say,
Christ will rise on Easter-Day.
And when sunrise smites the mountains,
Pouring light from heavenly fountains,
Then the earth blooms out to greet
Once again the blessed feet;
And her countless voices say,
Christ has risen on Easter-Day.

Up and down our lives obedient
Walk, dear Christ, with footsteps radiant,
Till those garden lives shall be
Fair with duties done for Thee;
And our thankful spirits say,
Christ arose on Easter-Day.

–Phillips Brooks (1835-1893)

The end & the beginning: Resurrection & Annunciation at second level of Grünewald's astonishing Isenheim Altarpiece, 1515. Today is his day. pic.twitter.com/QbSvhlFCLM

— Dr. Peter Paul Rubens (@PP_Rubens) August 31, 2023

I have desired to go
Where springs not fail,
To fields where flies no sharp and sided hail,
And a few lilies blow.

And I have asked to be
Where no storms come,
Where the green swell is in the havens dumb,
And out of the swing of the sea.

–Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1899)

Good Morning pic.twitter.com/vD3NxaYzDf

— philip jackson (@pajacksonartist) April 8, 2024

Most glorious Lord of Lyfe! that, on this day,
Didst make Thy triumph over death and sin;
And, having harrowd hell, didst bring away
Captivity thence captive, us to win:
This joyous day, deare Lord, with joy begin;
And grant that we, for whom thou diddest dye,
Being with Thy deare blood clene washt from sin,
May live for ever in felicity!

And that Thy love we weighing worthily,
May likewise love Thee for the same againe;
And for Thy sake, that all lyke deare didst buy,
With love may one another entertayne!
So let us love, deare Love, lyke as we ought,
–Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught.

Happy Easter!! ☀️✝️

Celebrating with sunshine and daffodils here in the South-East, we hope everyone is having a lovely day!

Best wishes from all of us at McCrimmons 💛

The Resurrection by Andrea Mantegna, c.1459, Musee des Beaux Arts, Tours https://t.co/XLp21yhuRC pic.twitter.com/1FPox81FAa

— McCrimmons (@Mccrimmons) April 17, 2022

From there:

Not darkness but twilight
In which even the best
of minds must make its way
now. And slowly the questions
occur, vague but formidable
for all that. We pass our hands
over their surface like blind
men feeling for the mechanism
that will swing them aside. They
yield, but only to re-form
as new problems; and one
does not even do that
but towers immovable
before us.

Is there no way
of other thought of answering
its challenge? There is an anticipation
of it to the point of
dying. There have been times
when, after long on my knees
in a cold chancel, a stone has rolled
from my mind, and I have looked
in and seen the old questions lie
folded and in a place
by themselves, like the piled
graveclothes of love’s risen body.

Christ is risen! Easter blessings to all 🖼 Resurrection, Luca Giordano, 1665 #HappyEaster #Alleluia #AMDG pic.twitter.com/8sU4wqpY2m

— Joe Petriello (@joepetriello) April 12, 2020

‘They walked to the Eastern edge of the hill and looked down. The one big star had almost disappeared. The country all looked dark grey, but beyond, at the very end of the world, the sea showed pale. The sky began to turn red. They walked to and fro more times than they could count between the dead Aslan and the Eastern ridge, trying to keep warm; and oh, how tired their legs felt. Then at last, as they stood for a moment looking out towards the sea and Cair Paravel (which they could now just make out) the red turned to gold along the line where the sea and the sky met and very slowly up came the edge of the sun. At that moment they heard from behind them a loud noise—a great cracking, deafening noise as if a giant had broken a giant’s plate.
“What’s that?” said Lucy, clutching Susan’s arm.
“I—I feel afraid to turn round,” said Susan; “something awful is happening.”
“They’re doing something worse to him,” said Lucy. “Come on!” And she turned, pulling Susan round with her.
The rising of the sun had made everything look so different—all the colours and shadows were changed—that for a moment they didn’t see the important thing. Then they did. The Stone Table was broken into two pieces by a great crack that ran down it from end to end; and there was no Aslan.
“Oh, oh, oh!” cried the two girls rushing back to the Table.
“Oh, it’s too bad,” sobbed Lucy; “they might have left the body alone.”
“Who’s done it?” cried Susan. “What does it mean? Is it more magic?”
“Yes!” said a great voice behind their backs. “It is more magic.” They looked round. There, shining in the sunrise, larger than they had seen him before, shaking his mane (for it had apparently grown again) stood Aslan himself.
“Oh, Aslan!” cried both the children, staring up at him, almost as much frightened as they were glad.
“Aren’t you dead then, dear Aslan?” said Lucy.
“Not now,” said Aslan.
“You’re not—not a—?” asked Susan in a shaky voice. She couldn’t bring herself to say the word ghost.
Aslan stooped his golden head and licked her forehead. The warmth of his breath and a rich sort of smell that seemed to hang about his hair came all over her.
“Do I look it?” he said.
“Oh, you’re real, you’re real! Oh, Aslan!” cried Lucy and both girls flung themselves upon him and covered him with kisses.
“But what does it all mean?” asked Susan when they were somewhat calmer.
“It means,” said Aslan, “that though the Witch knew the Deep Magic, there is a magic deeper still which she did not know. Her knowledge goes back only to the dawn of Time. But if she could have looked a little further back, into the stillness and the darkness before Time dawned, she would have read there a different incantation. She would have known that when a willing victim who had committed no treachery was killed in a traitor’s stead, the Table would crack and Death itself would start working backwards. And now—
“Oh yes. Now?” said Lucy jumping up and clapping her hands.
“Oh, children,” said the Lion, “I feel my strength coming back to me. Oh, children, catch me if you can!” He stood for a second, his eyes very bright, his limbs quivering, lashing himself with his tail. Then he made a leap high over their heads and landed on the other side of the Table. Laughing, though she didn’t know why, Lucy scrambled over it to reach him. Aslan leaped again. A mad chase began. Round and round the hill-top he led them, now hopelessly out of their reach, now letting them almost catch his tail, now diving between them, now tossing them in the air with his huge and beautifully velveted paws and catching them again, and now stopping unexpectedly so that all three of them rolled over together in a happy laughing heap of fur and arms and legs. It was such a romp as no one has ever had except in Narnia; and whether it was more like playing with a thunderstorm or playing with a kitten Lucy could never make up her mind. And the funny thing was that when all three finally lay together panting in the sun the girls no longer felt in the least tired or hungry or thirsty.
“And now,” said Aslan presently, “to business. I feel I am going to roar. You had better put your fingers in your ears.”
And they did. And Aslan stood up and when he opened his mouth to roar his face became so terrible that they did not dare to look at it. And they saw all the trees in front of him bend before the blast of his roaring as grass bends in a meadow before the wind. Then he said,
“We have a long journey to go. You must ride on me.” And he crouched down and the children climbed onto his warm, golden back and Susan sat first holding on tightly to his mane and Lucy sat behind holding on tightly to Susan. And with a great heave he rose underneath them and then shot off, faster than any horse could go, downhill and into the thick of the forest.
That ride was perhaps the most wonderful thing that happened to them in Narnia. Have you ever had a gallop on a horse? Think of that; and then take away the heavy noise of the hoofs and the jingle of the harness and imagine instead the almost noiseless padding of the great paws. Then imagine instead of the black or grey or chestnut back of the horse the soft roughness of golden fur, and the mane flying back in the wind. And then imagine you are going about twice as fast as the fastest racehorse….’

—The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, Chapter XV

Happy Easter! I've always liked this painting of Caravaggio's. Good art demonstrates skill; masterpieces tell an entire story.

"Caravaggio was a master of light and shadow, and he uses this chiaroscuro to create a narrative through line in this piece. The shadows (representing… pic.twitter.com/fyK9HAjgeu

— Lawrence Hamtil (@lhamtil) March 31, 2024

Make no mistake: if He rose at all
it was as His body;
if the cells’ dissolution did not reverse, the molecules
reknit, the amino acids rekindle,
the Church will fall.

It was not as the flowers,
each soft Spring recurrent;
it was not as His Spirit in the mouths and fuddled
eyes of the eleven apostles;
it was as His Flesh: ours.
The same hinged thumbs and toes,
the same valved heart
that pierced died, withered, paused, and then
regathered out of enduring Might
new strength to enclose.
Let us not mock God with metaphor,
analogy, sidestepping transcendence;
making of the event a parable, a sign painted in the
faded credulity of earlier ages:
let us walk through the door.

The stone is rolled back, not paper-mache,
not a stone in a story,
but the vast rock of materiality that in the slow
grinding of time will eclipse for each of us
the wide light of day.

And if we will have an angel at the tomb,
make it a real angel,
weighty with Max Planck’s quanta, vivid with hair,
opaque in the dawn light, robed in real linen
spun on a definite loom.

Let us not seek to make it less monstrous,
for our own convenience, our own sense of beauty,
lest, awakened in one unthinkable hour, we are
embarrassed by the miracle,
and crushed by remonstrance.

–John Updike (1932-2009)

The Risen Lord at Emmaus: illustrating Easter Wednesday's Gospel with this window from Sainte-Pierre in Chartres. https://t.co/QAyeUgJBbd pic.twitter.com/s3Qg2sHuq0

— Fr Lawrence Lew, O.P. (@LawrenceOP) April 3, 2024

Sam believes that Gandalf has fallen a catastrophic distance and has died. But in the end of the story, with Sam having been asleep for a long while and then beginning to regain consciousness, Gandalf stands before Sam, robed in white, his face glistening in the sunlight, and says:

“Well, Master Samwise, how do you feel?”

But Sam lay back, and stared with open mouth, and for a moment, between bewilderment and great joy, he could not answer. At last he gasped: “Gandalf! I thought you were dead! But then I thought I was dead myself. Is everything sad going to come untrue? What’s happened to the world?”

“A great shadow has departed,” said Gandalf, and then he laughed, and the sound was like music, or like water in a parched land; and as he listened the thought came to Sam that he had not heard laughter, the pure sound of merriment, for days without count. It fell upon his ears like the echo of all the joys he had ever known. But he himself burst into tears. Then as a sweet rain will pass down a wind of spring and the sun will shine out the clearer, his tears ceased, and his laughter welled up, and laughing he sprang from bed… “How do I feel?” he cried.” Well, I don’t know how to say it. I feel, I feel” –he waved his arms in the air– “I feel like spring after winter, and sun on the leaves; and like trumpets and harps and all the songs I have ever heard!”

— J.R.R. Tolkien (1892-1973), The Return of the King

Painting at Bedtime.
Noli me Tangere.
James Tissot.

French artist James Tissot was best known for his sumptuous oil paintings in France and Britain. He also painted a series of watercolours based on the life of Christ. Here Christ meets Mary Magdalene after the Resurrection. pic.twitter.com/0uorTt2hF8

— Peter Jones (@PeterJones40) April 22, 2019

When I see blossoms spring,
And hear the birds’ song,
A sweet love-longing
My heart through-stung, [pierces]
All for a love new
That is so sweet and true,
That gladdens all my song:
I know in truth, iwis,
My joy and all my bliss
On him is all ylong. [is all because of him]

Of Jesu Christ I sing,
Who is so fair and free, [noble]
Sweetest of all thing;
His own ought I well to be.
So far for me he sought,
With suffering he me bought,
With wounds two and three;
Well sore he was swung,
And for me with spear was stung,
Nailed to the tree….

Read it all.

'When I see blosmes springe,
And hear foules song,
A swete love-longynge
Myn herte thourhout stong,
Al for a love newe
That is so swete and trewe,
That gladieth al my song…'

A medieval springtime poem for Eastertide https://t.co/lXKwvyuXB1 pic.twitter.com/Kxkirwbbre

— Eleanor Parker (@ClerkofOxford) April 1, 2024

Gather gladness from the skies;
Take a lesson from the ground;
Flowers do ope their heavenward eyes
And a Spring-time joy have found;
Earth throws Winter’s robes away,
Decks herself for Easter Day.

Beauty now for ashes wear,
Perfumes for the garb of woe.
Chaplets for disheveled hair,
Dances for sad footsteps slow;
Open wide your hearts that they
Let in joy this Easter Day.

Seek God’s house in happy throng;
Crowded let His table be;
Mingle praises, prayer and song,
Singing to the Trinity.
Henceforth let your souls alway
Make each morn an Easter Day.

Read it all.

A glorious sight – clouds of white blossom fill the air at Castle Gardens in Ludlow. This fantastic display lies just outside the castle walls, but don’t let the blue sky fool you – shortly after I took this shot the heavens opened and I ended up getting drenched. #Shropshire pic.twitter.com/NQFEtYBu6Z

— ShropshireAndBeyond (@ShropsAndBeyond) April 1, 2024

The view from my bedroom window combines with thoughts of Easter to remind me of this poem by R S Thomas. pic.twitter.com/y5wb41QtlC

— Tom Holland (@holland_tom) March 31, 2024

All night had shout of men, and cry
Of woeful women filled His way;
Until that noon of sombre sky
On Friday, clamour and display
Smote Him; no solitude had He,
No silence, since Gethsemane.

Public was Death; but Power, but Might,
But Life again, but Victory,
Were hushed within the dead of night,
The shutter’d dark, the secrecy.
And all alone, alone, alone,
He rose again behind the stone.

–Alice Meynell (1847-1922)

There's a rumour, a whisper. Something's happening. Could it be? #HolySaturday @gandkchurch @cofe pic.twitter.com/4xJz6oTEpv

— Fr Craig Huxley-Jones SCP (@FatherHux) April 15, 2017

HOW life and death in Thee
Agree !
Thou hadst a virgin womb
And tomb.
A Joseph did betroth
Them both.

–Richard Crashaw (1613-1649)

Pietro Lorenzetti
(c.1280-c.1348)
Entombment
c.1320
Fresco
Lower Church,S.Francesco
Assisi#HolySaturday #HolyWeek#DonneInArte #ArtLovers pic.twitter.com/D2qtUwoQ3d

— Alessandra Ciccolini (@AlessandraCicc6) April 14, 2017

This day, when my Soules forme bends toward the East.
There I should see a Sunne, by rising set,
And by that setting endlesse day beget;
But that Christ on this Crosse, did rise and fall,
Sinne had eternally benighted all.
Yet dare I’almost be glad, I do not see
That spectacle of too much weight for mee.
Who sees Gods face, that is selfe life, must dye;
What a death were it then to see God dye?
It made his owne Lieutenant Nature shrinke,
It made his footstoole crack, and the Sunne winke.
Could I behold those hands which span the Poles,
And tune all spheares at once peirc’d with those holes?
Could I behold that endlesse height which is
Zenith to us, and our Antipodes,
Humbled below us? or that blood which is
The seat of all our Soules, if not of his,
Made durt of dust, or that flesh which was worne
By God, for his apparell, rag’d, and torne?

Read it all.

Mikhail Nesterov – Crucifixion, 1908 pic.twitter.com/9WOnc8qcBW

— Fr. David Abernethy ☦️ (@philokalia_min) June 25, 2021

St. Peter once: ‘Lord, dost Thou wash my feet?’-
Much more I say: Lord, dost Thou stand and knock
At my closed heart more rugged than a rock,
Bolted and barred, for Thy soft touch unmeet,
Nor garnished nor in any wise made sweet?
Owls roost within and dancing satyrs mock.
Lord, I have heard the crowing of the cock
And have not wept: ah, Lord, thou knowest it.
Yet still I hear Thee knocking, still I hear:
‘Open to Me, look on Me eye to eye,
That I may wring thy heart and make it whole;
And teach thee love because I hold thee dear
And sup with thee in gladness soul with soul
And sup with thee in glory by and by.’

–Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)

Portrait of a bearded man as an Apostle (Saint Peter) Pier Francesco Mola. @zigut @sofia_pinzi @45lefia @silvia_nader pic.twitter.com/Hi41L2vdNX

— 🎨 Bel Art – Orlando Fernández — 🎨🎼 (@ofervi) February 9, 2014

Robinson’s reading is full of telling details and keenly observed parallels. This enables her to show that what Jews term the binding of Isaac is not a test of Abraham’s faith, but a prohibition of the child sacrifice that occurred in some other cultures, for example in Carthage. Although she is familiar with biblical scholarship and makes use of it where necessary, this work is best seen as a close, attentive reading from a literary point of view. In her approach there is something of the sense of astonishment and marvel that is present in her novels. About the first words of Genesis she writes, “When I think there was a day when a human hand first wrote those words, I am filled with awe. This sentence is a masterpiece of compression.”

“There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will,” Hamlet said to Horatio. That is the conviction that controls the narrative of Genesis, culminating in its closing, when Joseph says to the brothers who tried to murder him, “You meant evil against me, but God meant it for good, to bring it about that many people should be kept alive, as they are today.”

Robinson makes few concessions to the reader. There is no introduction or conclusion; there are no chapter headings or signposts. She just wants her audience to look again at Genesis and see what they make of it.

Read it all.

Reading Genesis by Marilynne Robinson review – rich literary reading of the first book of the Bible https://t.co/oBAzmJviaq

— Guardian Books (@GuardianBooks) March 13, 2024

War broke out in August and in September 1914 Geoffrey Studdert Kennedy wrote these words in his parish magazine:

“I cannot say too strongly that I believe every able-bodied man ought to volunteer for service anywhere. Here ought to be no shirking of that duty.”

This from the man who would, before long be writing this, “Waste”:

“Waste of Muscle, waste of Brain,
Waste of Patience, waste of Pain,
Waste of Manhood, waste of Health,
Waste of Beauty, waste of Wealth,
Waste of Blood, and waste of Tears,
Waste of Youth’s most precious years,
Waste of ways the Saints have trod,
Waste of glory, Waste of God–War!”

Read it all.

The Church of England also commemorates Geoffrey Studdert-Kennedy, Priest, Poet, 1929

Photo of a memorial to Rev Studdert-Kennedy in the Church of St Edmund-the-King, Lombard Street, City of London via https://t.co/NhBvBSw9Hf pic.twitter.com/OjfwZe4pWI

— The Anglican Church in St Petersburg (@anglicanspb) March 8, 2024

The cathedral had hoped for some years to give Austen a fitting tribute as a sculpture, Dean Ogle said. “The opportunity has now arisen with a significant number of private donors and small grant providers keen to see in place the splendid and sensitive design by the acclaimed sculptor Martin Jennings. These funds are restricted by the donors to this project only.

“We recognise that, at a time of cost inflation for so many people, of anxiety about the future, and conflict in society, the idea of bringing to fruition a statue of arguably Britain’s greatest literary figure could be seen as frivolous. Funding for the arts, be it for sculpture or any other medium, is always open to question, which we understand.

“However, with the enthusiastic support of our private donors and the wider benefit it will bring to Winchester, Hampshire, and many of the Austen fans nationally and worldwide, we consider this project should proceed.”

Read it all.

Winchester Cathedral has revealed the preliminary design of a proposed statue of Jane Austen, commissioned from the figurative sculptor Martin Jennings, to mark the 250th anniversary in 2025 of the novelist’s birth https://t.co/IcWSRjmVlv

— Church Times (@ChurchTimes) March 5, 2024

Oh King of grief! (a title strange, yet true,
To thee of all kings only due)
Oh King of wounds! how shall I grieve for thee,
Who in all grief preventest me?
Shall I weep blood? why thou has wept such store
That all thy body was one door.
Shall I be scourged, flouted, boxed, sold?
‘Tis but to tell the tale is told.
‘My God, my God, why dost thou part from me? ‘
Was such a grief as cannot be.
But how then shall I imitate thee, and
Copy thy fair, though bloody hand?
Surely I will revenge me on thy love,
And try who shall victorious prove.
If thou dost give me wealth, I will restore
All back unto thee by the poor.
If thou dost give me honour, men shall see,
The honour doth belong to thee.
I will not marry; or, if she be mine,
She and her children shall be thine.
My bosom friend, if he blaspheme thy name,
I will tear thence his love and fame.
One half of me being gone, the rest I give
Unto some Chapel, die or live.
As for thy passion – But of that anon,
When with the other I have done.
For thy predestination I’ll contrive,
That three years hence, if I survive,
I’ll build a spittle, or mend common ways,
But mend mine own without delays.
Then I will use the works of thy creation,
As if I us’d them but for fashion.
The world and I will quarrel; and the year
Shall not perceive, that I am here.
My music shall find thee, and ev’ry string
Shall have his attribute to sing;
That all together may accord in thee,
And prove one God, one harmony.
If thou shalt give me wit, it shall appear;
If thou hast giv’n it me, ’tis here.
Nay, I will read thy book, and never move
Till I have found therein thy love;
Thy art of love, which I’ll turn back on thee,
O my dear Saviour, Victory!
Then for thy passion – I will do for that –
Alas, my God, I know not what.

–George Herbert (1593-1633)

Remembering George Herbert #otd: Anglican priest, poet, and a beacon of faith and devotion. His legacy as a master of metaphysical poetry and a devoted servant of God reminds us of the beauty in humility and the power of words to express the divine. #GeorgeHerbert pic.twitter.com/b6sbME28Zp

— University Church (@SMVOxford) February 27, 2024

“The Lord of the Rings is of course a fundamentally religious and Catholic work; unconsciously so at first, but consciously in the revision”. So wrote its author, J. R. R. Tolkien, in a 1953 private letter as his magnum opus was being prepared for publication.

The extent to which Christian sensibility informs the work, however, escapes most readers. That perhaps helps to explain its enduring popularity not only in the secularised West, but in non-Christian cultures, such as that of Japan.

The gap in understanding, which this book addresses, arises partly because the narrative force of The Lord of the Rings (TLoR] engages readers of all backgrounds, and also because the overlay of Norse mythological elements distracts them. Holly Ordway’s reading of TLoR in dialogue with Tolkien’s documented spirituality, however, clarifies the picture.

Read it all.

“The extent to which #Tolkien’s Christian sensibility informs #LordOfTheRings escapes most readers”.

My review of @HollyOrdway TOLKIEN’S FAITH: A SPIRITUAL BIOGRAPHY (@WordOnFire ) in @ChurchTimes today.https://t.co/fTdiH0GIkU

— Alex Faludy (@AlexanderFaludy) February 16, 2024