Realising Easter

There is something in this nothing,
this sorrowful gasp,
this fast of disbelief.
For the wave of excitement
never expects the desert or death.

 Loss amnesia extracted
memories of hope,
hopeless insomnia
gouged through rest
with nihilist emptiness,
yet purpose is enduring
and truth is still breathing,
despite every miss-belief
and projections of human limitations.

The truth of the pain is this;
there is more than a consolation
in this death.
There were whispers of victory
in the wind;
but the noise of mourning
drowned out its tender premonitions.

There is something in this nothing,
something more than consolation in this loss,
this sorrowful gasp.
How is one supposed to breath
in this space between death and life?
this Sheol on earth?
this furrowed brow of question-mark day
between redemption and vindication?
How is one supposed to breath,
eat or sleep in this vacuous void?

What emptiness there was
without expectation,
because no matter what prophecy
something this new
could never be anticipated in finite minds.

For what covenant could last forever?
what giving could fulfil every sacrifice?
what life is made in blood?
what one lamb could protect
all from death forever?
what goat could carry all the hand prints of sin
into the abyss?
what physical temple could
contain the fullness of divine?
what servant could pour out healing
from open wounds to a thousand generations?
what man could represent all and mediate,
submerged in filth, yet remain holy?
what enduring life could defeat death?

Only fully God, and fully man,
could give this life
and share it,
and let us breath again.

Only he could feed us
what does not frivol away,

only he could give us peace
from restlessness,

only with him
could we become complete.

Written 07/04/12.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Day 8 or 9

Image
Confinement, A melting pot reaching boiling point. Neighbour's needs clash,  Irritations become sparks. Tiny kingdoms close in on their kings, Yet tiny kindnesses shatter walls. Cold weather confines further And our neighbours rattle inside their shells As our boy bounces off the walls Of our little world, Where the music is constant And his breathing always  Sets the tempo of our hearts And the rhythm of our sleep. This little poem was written the 24th and 25th of March, 8 and 9 nine days into the lock-down here in France.  We're doing well, trying to keep creative as keeping our little boy entertained takes up most of our time. Things can get a little tense between neighbours in all this. We've had to encourage our nocturnal neighbours into a healthier rhythm as they kept waking Gabriel. Please be considerate and patient with each other, especially if you live in a flat.  And while your locked in, get to know the poetry of M...
Read more

An Array of Vapour - Matthew Heasman's endorsement and New Hope

Image
My debut Poetry collection "An Array of Vapour", published by TSL Publications, is now available for purchase here:  https://tslbooks.uk/product/an-array-of-vapour-peter-lilly/ This blog post is about Matthew Heasman's endorsement of the book, and the work of New Hope . It was an honour to work under Matthew's leadership at New Hope, and I am very humbled by his kind words about me and this book.  For those who don't know, New Hope is a local charity to Watford, just north-west of London, providing support, advice, food and shelter for people who are homeless or at risk of becoming homeless. They have a variety of different housing services ranging from emergency beds in the night-shelter, to medium term move-on accommodation, as well as drop-in services, a soup kitchen, and a support for those who have previously been homeless, to help them sustain their recovery.  In my five years working for the charity I had four positions in three different projects, but all ...
Read more

The Vine and the Branches

Image
Photograph of a vineyard in Les Cévennes, by Silje Lilly. Taken in July 2017. John 15:1-8 Gleaning grapes before October storms, the vines are ancient fingers, deathly-dry and knotted digits. bark-scarred with the wisdom of growing. They are crowned with a branchy vibrancy, of greenery, naivety and fertility. The miracle of the vine and the branches is the fruit. The credulous branches, are trusted to bear the weight of the yield, their green luminescence is continually fed by the vine that looks like deadwood.  A Lamb looking as though it had been slain. I wrote this poem in the Autumn of 2016 while I was in a vineyard on the outskirts of Montpellier, where Silje and I live, in the south of France. We were picking grapes after the harvest and enjoying time reading and writing in the autumn sun.  Silje took the photo in July 2017 while in another vineyard in Les Cévennes, a short drive north. Time and a...
Read more