Mervyn Morris: On Holy week – Witnessing of Easter

In this edition of Meeting Ground we reproduce selected poems from the Mervyn Morris collection titled On Holy Week. These intriguing poems capture the ‘witnessing’ aspect of Easter – crucifixion, resurrection, and the attending humanity of it all – betrayal, guilt, fear, love, pain, grief, relief, and joy.

For ‘Pilate’s Wife’ and ‘Pilate’ and other poems from the collection, not included below, we strongly recommend you get your copy of Peelin Orange (Carcanet Press, 2017). Although out of print, on the cover of the 2016 edition of On Holy Week, New Beacon Press, is the magnificent 1984 painting by Osmond Watson titled ‘Jah Lives’.

Stay blessed!

– Ann-Margaret Lim

Jesus in Gethsemane

I

O Father – if it be thy will –

let this cup pass from me.

But o my Father, I submit to thee:

use me, thy servant, still.

II

Father, I cannot drink this cup!

Release me (if it be thy will).

Unwilling, Father, I am still

thy servant. Bear me up.

A Priest

The chap’s a madman rather than a liar:

I think he’s quite convinced he’s The Messiah!

That God might be a carpenter! Absurd!

It’s quite the silliest nonsense I have heard!

(You know my bias; but) a priest –

perhaps an elder, at the very least –

would seem to be more likely for the job

than some untutored Galilean yob!

Peter

O Jesus, you were right:

I have denied you, Lord; in spite

of protestation, failed

the test.

When that girl hailed

me, Lord, I should have hollered loud,

‘He’s God I follow!’, Lord, and faced the crowd.

For all my talk, somehow

I couldn’t then; it’s too late now:

the deed is done, and twice the cock has crowed.

O Lord, more than this worthless life I owed

to you who made the world make sense!

Though hard on overconfidence,

you taught that fear is lack of faith, is sin;

yet I denied you, Lord, to save my skin.

These bitter tears won’t wash away the stain.

But o my Jesus, let me try again:

make me, as promised, your foundation rock;

forgive me, Lord, and I will feed your flock.

Soldiers

Hey! Boy! If you are God

then say who spit on you!

Say who, you bloody fraud!

We’re gonna nail you, Lord!

A Woman Named Mary

We get a good view here.

I know that man.

It’s Jesus! I’ve anointed him –

in Bethany, I think: at Simon’s house.

A lovely piece of man; real sweet.

Those hands. That mouth. Those feet.

Some stingy bastard tried to say

the money spent on nard was waste,

and should have gone to help the poor!

Jesus spoke up for me.

Malefactor (Left)

So you is God?

Den teck wi down! Tiefin doan bad

like crucifyin!

Wha do you, man?

Save all a wi from dyin!

Malefactor (Right)

Doan bodder widdim, Master; him

must die;

but when you kingdom come, remember I.

When you sail across de sea,

O God of Judah, carry I wit dee.

“Centurion”

I’ve seen it often:

when the pain gets harsh,

the fellow up there on the cross

will often cry for mercy. Usually

if he is lucid he will curse.

Sometimes when the pain gets harsh

the victim stops proclaiming

he is innocent,

and swears revenge.

But this man’s different: he forgave

the people who enjoyed his pain!

Never nailed a man like this before.

Surely this man was God.

John

I fished; but he was deep.

The perfect man. Divine.

His love

was everlastingly benign.

Stripped there,

broken on the cross:

perfection sacrificed!

O help us to endure our loss,

blessed body of Christ.

Mary Magdalene

Me, crying; just outside the tomb.

This fellow asks me why I’m crying.

I ask him where the body is.

‘Mary.’ The man says quietly.

I turn.

The voice is His.

Mervyn Morris, Peelin Orange (Carcanet Press, Manchester, 2017)