Reflection/ Every day is Easter

Easter doesn't end on Easter Sunday - a wise person once said 'now every day is Easter.'
Traditionally, the season of Easter lasts for 50 days to Pentecost.
Christian faith communities across the world read again the Bible stories reflecting the
appearance of Jesus...
In the spirit of Easter, two poems for meditating upon this week

CHRIST OF ST JOHN OF THE CROSS
(Inspired by the painting 'Christ of St. John of the Cross' by Salvador Dali.) 

And still his head is bowed,
The cross uncluttered now
By family and friends,
Adrift;
Unearthly brightness ghosts his outstretched arms,
God's well-belovèd son.

The storm is spent.
No ripples break the water's calm.
Two fishermen seek comfort
In their nets
And, in the eastern sky,
A new day dawns.
                             by Dee Yates



EASTER IONA

Listen. There is nothing except the wind.
The sheep lie in boulders in the fields,
The first few lambs shelter to the south-east of their mothers.
The moon swims through cloud, a rim of gold,
Yet never flows clear into open sky, never burns the sea with light.

Is there a God in all this blackness,
The huge emptiness of night? How small we are
When our lights go out, when all we can comfort our dark with
Are candles. In the end, each and every invention is not sufficient
To cure our loneliness, to take away our fear,
To solve the riddle of death. We can fly to the moon,
But we cannot heal the flaw in a broken soul.

Easter. How we took the only one who ever truly knew us
And murdered him. That night the dark must have seemed so close,
The emptiness so huge. The disciples
Blown away into troubled corners of Jerusalem,
Their hope broken, their lives lost.

Far away east, a black blood stains the sky;
The cold is bad, like a wound, it hurts the heart,
Twists like a rusted knife. Morning is many miles away;
Resurrection, awakening, they seem nothing more than a story
In some half-forgotten book, and yet Easter is becoming real
A little every second, the candles are being born across the hills
Until, at last, they conquer night, they light an impossible morning,
A beautiful hope.

                               by Kenneth Steven