Of course I believe in the Crucifixion.
Haven’t I walked as a pilgrim up the Via Dolorosa,
past the raucous holiday-makers, the street vendors,
the tumbling children? I can recognize the horror
and pain of bearing the weight of that cross
on one’s back, the shame of being today’s peepshow—
‘the entertainment of the week’, a sort of reality TV
with added agony.
Of course I believe
in Christ’s suffering; don’t I see it repeated
as the pain of friends dying in hospitals?
Of hearts tattered by anger, bitterness and envy?
Minds emptied of treasured memories?
Pain is no problem; and when his body was taken down
I believe in the suffering of the two Marys,
the despair of the disciples.
Oh, yes,and I believe in the tomb, his last prison on earth.I would have joined the women with their ointments and spices, with them would have been outraged on finding the tomb empty.
Of course I try to believe in the angels
they claimed to have seen. Did they really
see them? Or were they hallucinating?
Like Thomas, I find myself puzzled.
But I am braced for Easter Sunday in church.
I try with the prayers and alleluias
to rejoice at the world turned upside down;
Is it just out of habit? I don’t know.
But when the piety of Holy Week dies down,
do I believe in Jesus appearing to Peter, James and John?
Supping with the two at Emmaus?
Greeting his friends on the lake shore?
These should be the greatest scenes
in our Christian trust, so that when I’ve been
up half the night wrestling with pains and problems,
when I, like the fishing disciples, have caught nothing,
shouldn’t I then believe in the warmth of the fire,
in the fish cooked, in the bread laid out
and the confident voice telling me
to change direction?
I don’t want it to be hard
to believe what my faith depends on—
of course the Cross, but ultimately the Resurrection.