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 to all who celebrate (which includes me)
The Empty Tomb by Mikhail Nesterov, 1889https://t.co/gNZ1AwBUErhttps://t.co/Mw8OJjmbdf pic.twitter.com/mgzzVXtq96

— Bob Rich (@WritingRobert1) April 9, 2023

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 the second level of Grünewald's astonishing Isenheim Altarpiece, 1515. Today is his day. pic.twitter.com/P1CfIsU8Vc

— Dr. Peter Paul Rubens (@PP_Rubens) August 31, 2024

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.

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.

It’s that time of year when sea pink/thrift is popping up all along our beautiful coastline! #FlowersOnFriday🌸 #SeaPink #SeaThrift pic.twitter.com/kQwbc5t6zm

— Margaret O'Connell🌻 (@MargaretOC6) April 25, 2025

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

Intense sunset skies over the Cuillin from Tarskavaig, Isle of Skye #Scotland 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿 @BBCScotWeather @VisitScotland @StormHour @ThePhotoHour @SeanBattyTV @krobertsonitv pic.twitter.com/hYWgVAPDXY

— James MacInnes (@Macinnesplant) April 23, 2025

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.

Happy Orthodox Easter!

The Resurrection and the Descent
About 1850
Russia

In this icon, the resurrected Christ is shown surrounded by a mandorla and standing above an empty grave. He is shown again atop the destroyed gates of hell. He raises Adam out of a tomb by his wrists, pic.twitter.com/pfJy5FZ8br

— Russian Icons (@mrussianicons) May 2, 2021

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)

Study for a "Resurrection of Christ", 1533 #highrenaissance #michelangelo https://t.co/48FaBf9R7s pic.twitter.com/ntaEHDNejp

— Michelangelo (@fanmichelangelo) January 4, 2023

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.

Golden lane at sunrise. Taken in Glastonbury on one of the lanes near Glastonbury Tor. pic.twitter.com/izoG9eQbdA

— Michelle Cowbourne (@Glastomichelle) April 21, 2025

Words cannot utter

Christ His returning:—

Mankind, keep Jubilee,

Strip off your mourning,

Crown you with garlands,

Set your lamps burning.

Speech is left speechless;—

Set you to singing,

Fling your hearts open wide,

Set your bells ringing:

Christ the Chief Reaper

Comes, His sheaf bringing…

Read it all.

Happy Easter Monday ☀️ pic.twitter.com/GHioesF7no

— Ailish Sinclair (@AilishSinclair) April 21, 2025

“A story that is any good can’t be reduced, it can only be expanded. A story is good when you continue to see more and more in it, and when it continues to escape you. In fiction two and two is always more than four.”

–Flannery O’Connor, Mystery and Manners (New York: Farrar, Strauss and Giroux, 1957) p. 102

The Institute for Catholic Liberal Education wishes you a blessed Easter: He is risen; He is risen, indeed! May this time of joy and prayer bring consolation to you, your families, and your school communities!

(Image: The Resurrection of Christ, Reubens, 1611-1612) pic.twitter.com/3v29whHAoz

— Institute for Catholic Liberal Education (@CathLibEd) April 4, 2021

That done, there must take place that struggle
no human presumes to picture:
living, dying, descending to rescue the just
from shadow, were lesser travails
than this: to break
through earth and stone of the faithless world
back to the cold sepulchre, tearstained
stifling shroud; to break from them
back into breath and heartbeat, and walk
the world again, closed into days and weeks again,
wounds of His anguish open, and Spirit
streaming through every cell of flesh
so that if mortal sight could bear
to perceive it, it would be seen
His mortal flesh was lit from within, now,
and aching for home.

Mikhail Nestorov, Christ's Descent into Hell, c.1895 pic.twitter.com/VBcXNdPIsJ

— Solas (@solas_na_greine) April 19, 2025

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

–Richard Crashaw (1613-1649)

Entombment, 1170s, Winchester Cathedral.
Actually older than Pietro Lorenzetti's Entombment in Assisi – a humbling thought! pic.twitter.com/khPGSMNSGU

— Rembrandt's R👀m 🖌 (maaiked.bsky.social) (@RembrandtsRoom) July 8, 2024

I hope no one who reads this book has been quite as miserable as Susan and Lucy were that night; but if you have been, if you’ve been up all night and cried till you have no more tears left in you, you will know that there comes in the end a sort of quietness. You feel as if nothing was ever going to happen again.

–C.S. Lewis (1898-1963)

Holy Saturday is the strangest day in the Christian year.

Christ is dead.
The altar is bare.
There is no Mass.
No song.
No light.
We wait by the sealed tomb.
🧵 What does it mean to wait in this silence? pic.twitter.com/kY5zKG95EN

— Fr Joseph Hudson (@acloudofsaints) April 19, 2025

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

O God of eternal glory, whom no one living can see and yet whom to see is to live; grant that with thy servant John Donne, we may see thy glory in the face of thy Son, Jesus Christ, and then, with all our skill and wit, offer thee our crown of prayer and praise, until by his grace we stand in that last and everlasting day, when death itself will die, and all will live in thee, who with the Holy Ghost and the same Lord Jesus Christ art one God in everlasting light and glory. Amen.

The metaphysical poet John Donne died on March 31, 1631, in London, likely from stomach cancer. His death was preceded by a period of declining health, during which he prepared for his passing both spiritually and artistically. https://t.co/lqOJd2lV9S pic.twitter.com/t4Q0bFvq0s

— Trivia Encyclopedia (@edpearce080759) March 31, 2025

“The Death of the Hired Man” by Robert Frost is an extraordinary poem. In a deceptively simple narrative style, it relates the discussion between a farmer and his wife over whether to offer shelter to the itinerant labourer whose work has been somewhat unsatisfactory in the past.

Silas has arrived at their doorstep, “a miserable sight — and frightening too”. Warren is unwilling to offer him employment again, but Mary’s kind heart won’t allow him to turn away a man who has “nothing to look backward to with pride and nothing to look forward to with hope”. She believes that he has “come home to die”, which feeling gives rise to the well known phrases: “Home is the place where, when you have to go there They have to take you in,” and “I should have called it Something you somehow haven’t to deserve.” Warren is persuaded to offer Silas work in order to keep his pride, but this offer is redundant: Silas, worn out by life and aware of reaching sanctuary at last, has died.

In a strange, lyrical way, this poem sums up the joy and the challenge of the “welcoming church”: the grace-filled obligation to accept in Jesus’s name every person who seeks entry to the worshipping community, no matter who they are or what they might believe. Every church leader, I suspect, secretly prides themselves on their welcoming attitude to stranger and seasoned churchgoer alike, and, if we are occasionally troubled by a feeling that perhaps not everyone feels instantly “at home”, then how easy it is to reassure ourselves that the fault lies, if not with the congregation, then certainly with one or two trickier members of it.

Enter the mystery worshipper….

Read it all.

In the parish: Sally Welch begins a series on how to ensure parish churches are as welcoming as they would like to behttps://t.co/iDumAsZFGG

— Church Times (@ChurchTimes) March 7, 2025

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.

Delighted to be speaking on Geoffrey Studdert Kennedy at the Wantage Literary Festival on Sunday 21st @wantagelitfest pic.twitter.com/6O9REbmPks

— Linda Parker (@lindamparker56) October 18, 2018

Love bade me welcome. Yet my soul drew back 
                           Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack 
                           From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,
                           If I lacked any thing.

A guest, I answered, worthy to be here:
                           Love said, You shall be he.
I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah my dear,
                           I cannot look on thee.
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
                           Who made the eyes but I?

Truth Lord, but I have marred them: let my shame
                           Go where it doth deserve.
And know you not, says Love, who bore the blame?
                           My dear, then I will serve.
You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat:
                           So I did sit and eat.

Today, the calendar in Common Worship (CofE) commemorates the Welsh-born English poet, orator and priest, George Herbert (1593-1633) with a Lesser Festival. #GeorgeHerbert pic.twitter.com/FnyhernyJY

— Mark Coughlan (@mjc0ughl4n) February 27, 2025

Our God and King, who didst call thy servant George Herbert from the pursuit of worldly honors to be a pastor of souls, a poet, and a priest in thy temple: Give unto us the grace, we beseech thee, joyfully to perform the tasks thou givest us to do, knowing that nothing is menial or common that is done for thy sake; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who liveth and reigneth with thee and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever.

Today we remember George Herbert (1593-1633), a poet and priest of the Church of England. ‘The Temple’ is a book of poems written by Herbert. His poems explore religion and spirituality, and make interesting use of the book as a form.#LambethPalaceLibrary #EasterWings #Printed pic.twitter.com/50RnN9ebza

— LambethPalaceLibrary (@lampallib) February 27, 2025

What Ilyich faces in the final moment is grace. He is graced with the realization that he needs to offer care. Knowing that the real is compassion is not his accomplishment but is the gift of his son’s presence. We, who would so quickly assist him out of this life, would do so because we can bear with neither grace nor compassion. They ask too much of us for another. 

Because death is not taken from him by “assistance” that offers no real help, Ilyich is graced with realization that death is no more. “Instead of death there was light.” He sees this light and realizes that “death is over . . . there is no more death.” Ilyich’s realization echoes Revelation 21:4 that “death will be no more.” Only a culture that can see death and care for those who are dying can be a culture open to the One who bore all our burdens. Christ’s dying offers us abundant life even in our deaths if we are willing to face them. In his Good Death, death itself dies. Euthanasia denies us a good death because it is the denial of care, the denial of facing death authentically, and the denial of the goodness of life. It is thus the denial of the Author of Life—or of any possible spiritual breakthrough at all.

Each fall for many more years, my students and I will read a novella about a dying, loveless lawyer from Tsarist Russia. We will ask what the real life is and wonder if we are living it. We will consider what love and care look like and whether we live in a culture in which we bear each other’s burdens. To bear those burdens is to face our deaths together. The direction of our culture is increasingly toward “death pods” where we will die alone, because we, like Ivan, have refused to really live together. Resisting such a culture of solitary and uncared for assisted dying will take legislation, but it will also require that we spend some time with Ilyich and try to recover the goodness of a good life and of a good death. Someday I will face death. Someday my students will face it as well. Will we do so in a world detached from reality or attached to it? A culture that dispatches the burdensome or bears their burdens? A culture that offers care or that offers death? The euthanasia of Ilyich would have made impossible his eu thanatos. Our society’s growing practice of euthanasia may well prove to be the denial not only of our good deaths but also of the only real thing, a good life.

Read it all.

Resisting the march of euthanasia will require numerous approaches. I hope this reflection on the good death of Ivan Ilyich contributes in some small way. https://t.co/wOO6VTKdnF

— Terence Sweeney (@TerenceJSweeney) February 19, 2025

A poem for Epiphany, "The Wise Men," with thanks to @readliberties for publishing: pic.twitter.com/DA2M5ML3jZ

— Alicia E. Stallings (@ae_stallings) January 6, 2024

The First Wise Man

 To break down her defenses
And profit from the vision
That plain men can predict through an
Ascesis of their senses,
With rack and screw I put Nature through
A thorough inquisition;
But she was so afraid that if I were disappointed
I should hurt Her more that Her answers were disjointed –
I did. I didn’t. I will. I won’t.
She is just as big a liar, in fact, as we are.
To discover how to be truthful now
Is the reason I follow this star.

The Second Wise Man

My faith that in Time’s constant
Flow lay real assurance
Broke down on this analysis –
At any given moment
All solids dissolve, no wheels revolve,
And facts have no endurance –
And who knows if this is by design pure inadvertence
That the Present destroys its inherited self-importance?
With envy, terror, rage, regret,
We anticipate or remember but never are.
To discover how to be living now
Is the reason I follow this star.

You may read the rest there (pp. 27-28).

Adoration of the Magi by Garofalo #rijksmuseum #garofalo pic.twitter.com/OEtEH1IQx3

— Rijksmuseum Art (@rijksmuseum_art) September 1, 2018

It might have been just someone else’s story,
Some chosen people get a special king.
We leave them to their own peculiar glory,
We don’t belong, it doesn’t mean a thing.
But when these three arrive they bring us with them….

Read it all.

Fantastic in every way, especially if you love gold skies: Adoration of the Magi by Lorenzo Monaco, 1422. Today is his day. pic.twitter.com/XYHNWOA7Ux

— Dr. Peter Paul Rubens (@PP_Rubens) November 21, 2024

Imagine the kings, the caravans’ stilted procession
As they make for the cave, or, rather, three beams closing in
And in on the star, the creaking of loads, the clink of a cowbell;
(No thronging of Heaven as yet, no peal of the bell

That will ring in the end for the infant once he has earned it).
Imagine the Lord, for the first time, from darkness, and stranded
Immensely in distance, recognizing Himself in the Son
Of Man: His homelessness plain to him now in a homeless one.

Read it all.

A sneaky second entry for #epiphany – made of abalaster, gilding, and paint. C. 1400 – 1500, now in the Ashmolean museum, Oxford #MedievalMonday pic.twitter.com/DySj7cX7JJ

— Dr Naomi (@BooksTeaFilms) January 6, 2025

Listen to and ponder it all–more than once.

You may find the full text there (note that the audio is TS Eliot himself reading the poem).

How could they have known not to come
On what amounted to pretense? Everything
Their learning held, all their beliefs
Said regal gifts were needful for a king.

The things they brought were left behind,
Doubtless; or maybe traded for bread:
Impecunious Joseph with a family
To feed, a roof to put over his head.

Read it all.

Adoration of the Magi–Jan Gossaert pic.twitter.com/zPJWpnaSE2

— Sr. Helena Raphael Burns, fsp (@SrHelenaBurns) January 6, 2025

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light;
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more,
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out the want, the care the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease,
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

–Lord Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892)

These things have served their purpose: let them be.
So with your own, and pray they be forgiven
By others, as I pray you to forgive
Both bad and good. Last season’s fruit is eaten
And the fullfed beast shall kick the empty pail.
For last year’s words belong to last year’s language
And next year’s words await another voice.

–Little Gidding

Wishing everyone a Happy New Year! pic.twitter.com/2EpnGAKGzp

— Catherine Munro (@CatherineMMunro) January 1, 2025

From there:

And I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year:‘Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown.’And he replied:‘Go out into the darkness and put your hand into the Hand of God. That shall be to you better than light and safer than a known way.’So I went forth, and finding the Hand of God, trod gladly into the night. And He led me towards the hills and the breaking of day in the lone East.

Happy New Year from Tokyo 🎆 pic.twitter.com/TK4z3h6KV4

— Pictures (@piitures) December 31, 2021

so this is the sound of you
here and now whether or not
anyone hears it this is
where we have come with our age
our knowledge such as it is
and our hopes such as they are

Read it all.

Happy New Year from everyone at Durham Cathedral

We pray you have a blessed 2025

📷 shootingwithle pic.twitter.com/Oiazvy0ANz

— Durham Cathedral (@durhamcathedral) January 1, 2025