Breathing Easter;

Breathing Easter 

There 

is a 

moment

of perfect

stillness

between 

the 

in-breath

and the 

out-breath;

small,

silent,

vulnerable,

and so often

missed;

but, 

when we 

attend,

always 

infinite 

in 

depth.

It dwells

where

the now,

radiant and

eternal,

is touched

as transformation,

as grace;

for there

the

Risen One

is revealed

in the 

burning

bush 

of our breath,

of our being.

Just

as a garden,

emerging

frost tipped

from night's

entombment,

knows 

the delight

of dawn's 

first touch

and yields 

to the 

daily

moment

of resurrection

with the

inhalation

of light,

with the 

exhalation

of

birdsong.

Pic of Easter Sunday Dawn at Ards Friary 2019

Meditation for Holy Saturday

                           Meditation for Holy Saturday: 

There is no rest for Christ. 

The Word works always... though His body lies in death still He descends into the world of the dead and breaks the power of Hell forever... He harrows hades... and lifts into the fullness of Heaven all those who lay in limbo until the gates were broken down...

There is no place or power of darkness that will not flee before His light...

A beautiful meditation poem (one of my favourites) on the moment Christ appears in the world of the dead follows... 

Limbo 

by Sister Mary Ada, OSJ

The ancient grayness shifted

Suddenly and thinned

Like mist upon the moors

Before a wind.

An old, old prophet lifted

A shining face and said:

“He will be coming soon.

The Son of God is dead;

He died this afternoon.”

A murmurous excitement stirred

All souls.

They wondered if they dreamed –

Save one old man who seemed

Not even to have heard.

And Moses, standing,

Hushed them all to ask

If any had a welcome song prepared.

If not, would David take the task?

And if they cared

Could not the three young children sing

The Benedicite, the canticle of praise

They made when God kept them from perishing

In the fiery blaze?

A breath of spring surprised them,

Stilling Moses’ words.

No one could speak, remembering

The first fresh flowers,

The little singing birds.

Still others thought of fields new ploughed

Or apple trees

All blossom-boughed.

Or some, the way a dried bed fills

With water

Laughing down green hills.

The fisherfolk dreamed of the foam

On bright blue seas.

The one old man who had not stirred

Remembered home.

And there He was

Splendid as the morning sun and fair

As only God is fair.

And they, confused with joy,

Knelt to adore

Seeing that He wore

Five crimson stars

He never had before.

No canticle at all was sung

None toned a psalm, or raised a greeting song,

A silent man alone

Of all that throng

Found tongue –

Not any other.

Close to His heart

When the embrace was done,

Old Joseph said,

“How is Your Mother,

How is Your Mother, Son?”

The Providence of the Palm: a meditation poem as begin Holy Week

The Providence of the Palm

There is a divine 

tenderness

found at the heart

of the world

still, 

though

often forgotten.

If you do not believe me

that's ok.

But at least 

ask yourself 

why

the Palm tree,

growing silently

and unremarkably

for long years,

then

put forth a branch

a stem,

a flower,

in precisely that

direction;

growing 

inch by

perfect

inch,

to seeming 

touch 

with love

the face of

sacred suffering?

You may have 

many reasons

to say otherwise,

all of them no doubt

are good 

in their own way,

but to me the

providence 

of the Palm

is this,

a reminder

from the ancient

tribe of tree

that we

are called

to stretch toward

the

suffering

and pain of this 

world

and there

tenderly caress 

the 

wounded

face of 

Christ.