He is Risen - he is Risen Indeed!
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The world waits in silent anticipation.
For this, most solemn day of the Christian year.
As we enter into the Easter Triduum, Keble's poem for this day.
For the Wednesday before Easter, Keble on Daniel.
Keble's poem for the Tuesday before Easter.
In this poem for 'Fig Monday', Keble draws us into the reasons we all need salvation.
For Holy Week, a series of poems from Keble.
Today is the feast of St John, so I thought a poem by Keble might be in order.
For the final Sunday in Advent, Keble's fourth poem.
What went ye out to see
O'er the rude sandy lea,
Where stately Jordan flows by many a palm,
Or where Gennesaret's wave
Delights the flowers to lave,
That o'er her western slope breathe airs of balm.
All through the summer night,
Those blossoms red and bright
Spread their soft breasts, unheeding, to the breeze,
Like hermits watching still
Around the sacred hill,
Where erst our Saviour watched upon His knees.
The Paschal moon above
Seems like a saint to rove,
Left shining in the world with Christ alone;
Below, the lake's still face
Sleeps sweetly in th' embrace
Of mountains terrac'd high with mossy stone.
Here may we sit, and dream
Over the heavenly theme,
Till to our soul the former days return;
Till on the grassy bed,
Where thousands once He fed,
The world's incarnate Maker we discern.
O cross no more the main,
Wandering so will and vain,
To count the reeds that tremble in the wind,
On listless dalliance bound,
Like children gazing round,
Who on God's works no seal of Godhead find.
Bask not in courtly bower,
Or sun-bright hall of power,
Pass Babel quick, and seek the holy land -
From robes of Tyrian dye
Turn with undazzled eye
To Bethlehem's glade, or Carmel's haunted strand.
Or choose thee out a cell
In Kedron's storied dell,
Beside the springs of Love, that never die;
Among the olives kneel
The chill night-blast to feel,
And watch the Moon that saw thy Master's agony.
Then rise at dawn of day,
And wind thy thoughtful way,
Where rested once the Temple's stately shade,
With due feet tracing round
The city's northern bound,
To th' other holy garden, where the Lord was laid.
Who thus alternate see
His death and victory,
Rising and falling as on angel wings,
They, while they seem to roam,
Draw daily nearer home,
Their heart untravell'd still adores the King of kings.
Or, if at home they stay,
Yet are they, day by day,
In spirit journeying through the glorious land,
Not for light Fancy's reed,
Nor Honour's purple meed,
Nor gifted Prophet's lore, nor Science' wondrous wand.
But more than Prophet, more
Than Angels can adore
With face unveiled, is He they go to seek:
Blessed be God, Whose grace
Shows Him in every place
To homeliest hearts of pilgrims pure and meek.
The fifth chorus of the Angelicals from 'The Dream of Gerontius' - better known now as a hymn.
For Saturday, a poem for Our Lady's month.
When he wrote this, Newman cannot have imagined he would end his days as a Prince of the Church - or that he would become one of the most influential of modern religious thinkers.
One on which to meditate.
Some of Newmkan's verse is well-known, but for this first week of Advent, we shall be posting some examples that are less well-known but deserve rescuing.