Three on Good Friday—National Poetry Month 2025

 

Crucifixion of Jesus of Nazareth, a Medieval illustration from the 12th century Hortus deliciarum of Herrad of Landsberg.

 

Good Friday is the most somber day of the Christian liturgical calendar it is the bleak but necessary set up to Easter and the celebration of the resurrection of Christ.  It seems not to have been central to worship in the earliest centuries of the Church.  It took generations for the central symbol of the day—the cross and later the crucifix with the hanging body of Jesus—to replace the fish as the universal icon of Christianity.  

By the early Medieval period art depicting the crucifixion displayed the shift to concentrating in often ghastly detail the suffering of Jesus paying with his pain for the sins of humanity.  Penitent Christians were expected to feel the prick of the thorns on Christ’s brow, the lashes, the weight of the burden of his own instrument of doom, the terrible thirst, the driven spikes through his flesh, the pierce of the Centurion’s lance, and the long agonizing death of suffocation.

No wonder that many pagan peoples regarded Christianity as a death cult. 

Today we will feature three contemplations on Good Friday by observant and orthodox Christians.

This excerpt from The Dream of the Rood comes from the 8th Century Anglo-Saxon and is the earliest known example of Christian poetry in Old English.  The verse spoken in the voice of the tree from which the Cross was made shows and interesting blend of the pagan beliefs of both the Germanic tribes and Celtic Druids which made trees central to their worship with Christianity.

A modern illustration of The Dream of the Rood by Angela Lemaire.

From the The Dream of the Rood

The Rood (cross of Christ) speaks:

“It was long past – I still remember it –
That I was cut down at the copse’s end,
Moved from my root. Strong enemies there took me,
Told me to hold aloft their criminals,
Made me a spectacle. Men carried me
Upon their shoulders, set me on a hill,
A host of enemies there fastened me.

“And then I saw the Lord of all mankind
Hasten with eager zeal that He might mount
Upon me. I durst not against God’s word
Bend down or break, when I saw tremble all
The surface of the earth. Although I might
Have struck down all the foes, yet stood I fast.

“Then the young hero (who was God almighty)
Got ready, resolute and strong in heart.
He climbed onto the lofty gallows-tree,
Bold in the sight of many watching men,
When He intended to redeem mankind.
I trembled as the warrior embraced me.
But still I dared not bend down to the earth,
Fall to the ground. Upright I had to stand.

“A rood I was raised up; and I held high
The noble King, the Lord of heaven above.
I dared not stoop. They pierced me with dark nails;
The scars can still be clearly seen on me,

The open wounds of malice. Yet might I
Not harm them. They reviled us both together.
I was made wet all over with the blood
Which poured out from his side, after He had
Sent forth His spirit. And I underwent
Full many a dire experience on that hill.
I saw the God of hosts stretched grimly out.
Darkness covered the Ruler’s corpse with clouds
His shining beauty; shadows passed across,
Black in the darkness. All creation wept,
Bewailed the King’s death; Christ was on the cross….

“Now you may understand, dear warrior,
That I have suffered deeds of wicked men
And grievous sorrows. Now the time has come
That far and wide on earth men honor me,
And all this great and glorious creation,
And to this beacon offers prayers. On me
The Son of God once suffered; therefore now
I tower mighty underneath the heavens,
And I may heal all those in awe of me.
Once I became the cruelest of tortures,
Most hateful to all nations, till the time
I opened the right way of life for men.”

—Translated by Richard Hammer

Ecce Ancilla Domini (Behold the handmaid of the Lord.)  Dante Gabriel Rossetti used his sister, Christina, as Mary and his brother William Michael as the Archangel Gabriel.

 

Christina Rossetti, 1830-1894, was a prolific English poet and Anglo-Catholic mystic.  She was the daughter of Italian poet and political refugee Gabriele Rossetti  and sister of ‎ Pre-Raphaelite painter  Dante Gabriel Rossetti who often used her as a model.

Good Friday

Am I a stone, and not a sheep,
That I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy cross,
To number drop by drop Thy blood’s slow loss,
And yet not weep?

Not so those women loved
Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee;
Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly;
Not so the thief was moved;

Not so the Sun and Moon
Which hid their faces in a starless sky,
A horror of great darkness at broad noon –
I, only I.

Yet give not o’er,
But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock;
Greater than Moses, turn and look once more
And smite a rock.

—Christina  Rossetti

John Masefield, long-time Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom.

John Masefield, 1878-1967 was an English poet and writer, and the Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom from 1930 until his death. Among his best known works were the children’s novels The Midnight Folk and The Box of Delights, and the poems The Everlasting Mercy and Sea-Fever.  In the United States he is often misidentified and his poems attributed to John Mansfield.

From The Everlasting Mercy

O Christ who holds the open gate,
O Christ who drives the furrow straight,
O Christ, the plough, O Christ, the laughter
Of holy white birds flying after,
Lo, all my heart’s field red and torn,
And Thou wilt bring the young green corn
The young green corn divinely springing,
The young green corn forever singing;
And when the field is fresh and fair
Thy blessèd feet shall glitter there,
And we will walk the weeded field,
And tell the golden harvest’s yield,
The corn that makes the holy bread
By which the soul of man is fed,
The holy bread, the food unpriced,
Thy everlasting mercy, Christ.

             —John Masefield

Prayers for All Religions—National Poetry Month 2022

We are in the midst of the Islamic holy month Ramadan.  Tomorrow, April 15 this year, is both the beginning of Jewish Passover and Christian Good Friday.  Sunday is Easter.  The Germanic/Norse celebration of Ēostre the Spring Equinox was in late March, but many modern neo-pagans celebrate it at the same time as Easter noting the symbols and customs—eggs, hares, and flowers—were folk customs folded in the Christian holy day.  I am sure diligent investigation would uncover additional celebrations and rituals by other faiths observed at this time of year.

Clearly there is a visceral connection to a season of rebirth connected to many traditions.  And despite stout claims that each celebration is the true one, many believe they are all manifestations of the same awe for what I have called the Greater. 

                            Sister. Mary Lou Kownacki, OSB.

Sister Mary Lou Kownacki, OSB reflected this view which I call small u universalism.  She is the close associate of Sister Joan Chittister, OSB as the Director of Monasteries of the Heart, a movement sharing Benedictine spirituality with seekers. She has lived and worked in inner-city Erie, Pennsylvania for 40 years, and has been instrumental in developing innovative programs that serve local neighborhoods, including founding the Inner-City Neighborhood Art House. She served as Executive Director of Alliance for International Monasticism (AIM) and of Pax Christi USA, the national Catholic peace movement. 

A poet and award-winning author, Sister Mary Lou’s most recent books are Old Monk published by Benetvision, A Monk in the Inner City: The ABCs of a Spiritual Journey issued by Orbis, and Between Two Souls: Conversations with Ryokan published by Eerdmans.

This widely used prayer verse was read at the annual Martin Luther King Prayer Breakfast this year sponsored by Faithbridge, McHenry County’s interfaith community.

Prayer for Dialogue with Greater Religions

I bow to the one who signs the cross.

I bow to the one who sits with the Buddha.

I bow to the one who wails at the wall.

I bow to the OM flowing in the Ganges.

I bow to the one who faces Mecca,

whose forehead touches holy ground.

I bow to dervishes whirling in mystical wind.

I bow to the north,

to the south,

to the east,

to the west.

I bow to the God within each heart.

I bow to epiphany,

to God’s face revealed.

I bow. I bow. I bow.

 

—Mary Lou Kownacki, OSB

 

Although I wrote We Build Temples in the Heart, the title poem of my 2004 Skinner House Meditation Manual collection to describe the worship experience at the old Congregational Unitarian Church in Woodstock, Illinois, it broadly honors that same universalist spirit.

We Build Temples in the Heart

 

We have seen the great cathedrals,

stone laid upon stone,

carved and cared for

by centuries of certain hands,

seen the slender minarets

soar from dusty streets

to raise the cry of faith

to the One and Only God,

seen the placid pagodas

where gilded Buddhas squat

amid the temple bells and incense.

 

We have seen the tumbled temples

half buried in the sands,

choked with verdant tangles,

sunk in corralled seas,

old truths toppled and forgotten,

even seen the wattled huts,

the sweat lodge hogans,

the wheeled yurts,

the Ice Age caverns

where unwritten worship

raised its knowing voices.

 

But here, we build temples in our hearts

side by side we come,

as we gather—

 

Here the swollen belly

and aching breasts

of a well thumbed paleo-goddess,

there the spinning prayer wheels

of lost Tibetan lamaseries;

mix the mortar of the scattered dust

of the Holy of Holies

with the sacred water

of the Ganges;

lay Moorish alabaster

on the blocks of Angkor Wat

and rough-hewn Stonehenge slabs;

plumb Doric columns

for strength of reason,

square with stern Protestant planks;

illuminate with Chartres’

jeweled windows

and the brilliant lamps of science.

 

Yes here, we build temples in our hearts,

side by side we come,

scavenging the ages for wisdom,

cobbling together as best we may,

the fruit of a thousand altars,

leveling with doubt,

framing with skepticism,

measuring by logic,

sinking firm foundations in the earth

as we reach for the heavens.

 

Here, we build temples in our hearts,

side by side we come,

a temple for each heart,

a village of temples,

none shading another,

connected by well worn paths,

built alike on sacred ground.

 

—Patrick Murfin

 

The Old Rugged Cross—Murfin Home Confinement Music Festival 2020

The Old Rugged Cross sung by Johnny Cash and June Carter.

Good Friday is such a sad day for Christians that it is hard to be chipper especially when believers, do not even have the consolation of coming together for worship these days.  And it makes it hard to pick out an appropriate song for the Home Confinement Music Festival.  Then I remember millions of American Protestants have long taken comfort in the Hymn The Old Rugged Cross.

George Bennard, writer and composer of The Old Rugged Cross.

It was written in 1912 by  evangelist and song-leader George Bennard, 1873–1958, who was saved as a young man by the Salvation Army who became a Methodist camp meeting revivalist.  It was popularized when two of evangelist Billy Sunday’s musicians, Homer Rodeheaver, who bought the publishing rights to the song for a reported $50 or $500 and Virginia Asher.  Together as a duo they were the  record it in 1921.  It circulated as a revival campaign staple for decades and the sheet music  sold briskly for both church accompanists  and home parlor pianists especially in the South.

Music for The Old Rugged Cross.

But did not become more widely known until Ernest Tubb's 1953 album, The Old Rugged Cross.  After that it became a staple of the burgeoning sub-genre of country gospel music.  Many of country music’s biggest stars recorded it on the gospel albums including Al Green, Andy Griffith, Anne Murray, Brad Paisley, Chet Atkins, George Jones, Eddy Arnold, Jim Reeves, Merle Haggard, Patsy Cline, Loretta Lynn, Ray Price, Tennessee Ernie Ford, , Roy Rogers and Dale Evans, The Oak Ridge Boys, The Statler Brothers, Vince Gill, Willie Nelson, Alan Jackson, George Beverly Shea, and John Prine.  That’s a whole wing of the Country Music Hall of Fame right there.

The cover for a re-mastered version of Ernest Tubb's recording.

As a boy growing up in Cheyenne, Wyoming in the 1950’s the song was inescapable at Easter time.  Mom played her favorite,  Tennessee Ernie Ford, over and over at our house.

Black gospel singers including Mahalia Jackson and the Rev. Al Green also recorded it as did folk/rock superstar Bob Dylan.  The new genre of Christian Rock is all over it as well bringing it to the new Evangelical Mega Churches.

Johnny Cash Sings Precious Memories, 1975,

Today we will enjoy a live performance by Johnny Cash and June Carter before thousands in a sports arena.  The song was included on Cash’s 1975 album Johnny Cash Sings Precious Memories

Three on Good Friday—National Poetry Month 2020

Crucifixion of Jesus of Nazareth, a Medieval illustration from the 12th century Hortus deliciarum of Herrad of Landsberg.

Good Friday is the most somber day of the Christian liturgical calendar it is the bleak but necessary set up to Easter and the celebration of the resurrection of Christ.  It seems not to have been central to worship in the earliest centuries of the Church.  It took generations for the central symbol of the day—the cross and later the crucifix with the hanging body of Jesus—to replace the fish as the universal icon of Christianity.  

By the early Medieval period art depicting the crucifixion displayed the shift to concentrating in often ghastly detail the suffering of Jesus paying with his pain for the sins of humanity.  Penitent Christians were expected to feel the prick of the thorns on Christ’s brow, the lashes, the weight of the burden of his own instrument of doom, the terrible thirst, the driven spikes through his flesh, the pierce of the Centurion’s lance, and the long agonizing death of suffocation.

No wonder that many pagan peoples regarded Christianity as a death cult. 

Today we will feature three contemplations on Good Friday by observant and orthodox Christians.

This excerpt from The Dream of the Rood comes from the 8th Century Anglo-Saxon and is the earliest known example of Christian poetry in Old English.  The verse spoken in the voice of the tree from which the Cross was made shows and interesting blend of the pagan beliefs of both the Germanic tribes and Celtic Druids which made trees central to their worship with Christianity.

A modern illustration of The Dream of the Rood byAngela Lemaire.

From the The Dream of the Rood

The Rood (cross of Christ) speaks:

“It was long past – I still remember it –
That I was cut down at the copse’s end,
Moved from my root. Strong enemies there took me,
Told me to hold aloft their criminals,
Made me a spectacle. Men carried me
Upon their shoulders, set me on a hill,
A host of enemies there fastened me.

“And then I saw the Lord of all mankind
Hasten with eager zeal that He might mount
Upon me. I durst not against God’s word
Bend down or break, when I saw tremble all
The surface of the earth. Although I might
Have struck down all the foes, yet stood I fast.

“Then the young hero (who was God almighty)
Got ready, resolute and strong in heart.
He climbed onto the lofty gallows-tree,
Bold in the sight of many watching men,
When He intended to redeem mankind.
I trembled as the warrior embraced me.
But still I dared not bend down to the earth,
Fall to the ground. Upright I had to stand.

“A rood I was raised up; and I held high
The noble King, the Lord of heaven above.
I dared not stoop. They pierced me with dark nails;
The scars can still be clearly seen on me,

The open wounds of malice. Yet might I
Not harm them. They reviled us both together.
I was made wet all over with the blood
Which poured out from his side, after He had
Sent forth His spirit. And I underwent
Full many a dire experience on that hill.
I saw the God of hosts stretched grimly out.
Darkness covered the Ruler’s corpse with clouds
His shining beauty; shadows passed across,
Black in the darkness. All creation wept,
Bewailed the King’s death; Christ was on the cross….

“Now you may understand, dear warrior,
That I have suffered deeds of wicked men
And grievous sorrows. Now the time has come
That far and wide on earth men honor me,
And all this great and glorious creation,
And to this beacon offers prayers. On me
The Son of God once suffered; therefore now
I tower mighty underneath the heavens,
And I may heal all those in awe of me.
Once I became the cruelest of tortures,
Most hateful to all nations, till the time
I opened the right way of life for men.”

—Translated by Richard Hammer

Ecce Ancilla Domini (Behold the handmaid of the Lord.)  Dante Gabriel Rossetti used his sister, Christina, as Mary and his brother William Michael as the Archangel Gabriel.

Christina Rossetti, 1830-1894, was a prolific English poet and Anglo-Catholic mystic.  She was the daughter of Italian poet and political refugee Gabriele Rossetti  and sister of ‎ Pre-Raphaelite painter  Dante Gabriel Rossetti who often used her as a model.

Good Friday

Am I a stone, and not a sheep,
That I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy cross,
To number drop by drop Thy blood’s slow loss,
And yet not weep?

Not so those women loved
Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee;
Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly;
Not so the thief was moved;

Not so the Sun and Moon
Which hid their faces in a starless sky,
A horror of great darkness at broad noon –
I, only I.

Yet give not o’er,
But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock;
Greater than Moses, turn and look once more
And smite a rock.

—Christina  Rossetti

John Masefield, long-time Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom.

John Masefield, 1878-1967 was an English poet and writer, and the Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom from 1930 until his death. Among his best known works were the children’s novels The Midnight Folk and The Box of Delights, and the poems The Everlasting Mercy and Sea-Fever.  In the United States he is often misidentified and his poems attributed to John Mansfield.

From The Everlasting Mercy

O Christ who holds the open gate,
O Christ who drives the furrow straight,
O Christ, the plough, O Christ, the laughter
Of holy white birds flying after,
Lo, all my heart’s field red and torn,
And Thou wilt bring the young green corn
The young green corn divinely springing,
The young green corn forever singing;
And when the field is fresh and fair
Thy blessèd feet shall glitter there,
And we will walk the weeded field,
And tell the golden harvest’s yield,
The corn that makes the holy bread
By which the soul of man is fed,
The holy bread, the food unpriced,
Thy everlasting mercy, Christ.

             —John Masefield

The Hope and Heartbreak of Passover in Murfin Verse

A late 19th Century engraving illustrating the Angel of death passing by a Jewish home where sheep's blood has been smeared on the door lintle. 

Last night at sundown Passover or Pesach began when Jews around the world gathered around  ritual tables to remember and give thanks for the events that lead to the ultimate freedom of the Hebrew people and a Promise Land of their own.  That came at a terrible price for their oppressors—a pain that they thank God for inflicting.  It is an uplifting night, a hopeful night, but also a terrible one.

The story of Passover and the Exodus from Egypt is a saga of freedom that not only gave comfort and hope to Jews through centuries of persecution but inspired others who were enslaved and oppressed.  Blacks held in bondage in America in particular used images from the tale in their coded worship and song in which the Promise Land was freedom itself. In his the speech on the eve of his assassination Martin Luther King evoked Moses when he declared:

I’ve been to the mountaintop…Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I’m not concerned about that now. I just want to do God’s will. And He’s allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I’ve looked over. And I’ve seen the Promised Land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the promised land!

The traditions of the Passover feast are outlined in the Hebrew scripture making them among the most ancient of continually observed religious celebrations in the world.  On the first night families gather for a Seder meal, the ingredients of which are prescribed and highly symbolic in re-telling the story.  A service is read from the Haggadah and is in the form of questions asked by the eldest son of the father.  

The Seder is a tradition of the home, not the Temple where lore and tradition are ritually transmi identitytted between generations to preserve a Jewish in a world of peril while holding out hope for a better future

Christians believe that the Last Super was a Seder meal, linking the two observances.  In recent years some Christians have taken to celebrating Seder meals to connect to the Jewish roots of their faith.  This is a development that is embraced as a bridge to cultural understanding by some, and as an abomination by traditional Jews.  Many Reform congregations invite non-Jews to attend special Seder meals.  I once got to open the door for Elijah.

This year the first night of Passover shared the evening with Good Friday, when Christians mark the death of Jesus on the Cross.  It was also a Blue Moon, the second full moon of the month, symbolic of how relatively rare that coincidence is.

Back in 2012 the two holy occasions also coincided.  On that same night I hosted a benefit evening of song and poetry with bluesman Andy Cohen at the Unitarian Universalist Congregation in McHenry (now Tree of Life—A UU Congregation in McHenry County),  Naturally, I committed poetry for the occasion.   I have edited the poem and replaced a verse from the original.

Acording to the Gospel of John, Jesus was the Lamb of God, litterally like the sheep whose blood marked the Jewish doorways, a sacrifice to save the people. 

Brief Haggadah for Passover/Good Friday

For Social Gospel in Words and Music

April 6, 2012

The child always asks…

            What makes this night different

            from all other nights?

You have to think hard.

Somewhere children are always

being massacred for some

accident of birth

            or for mere convenience sake.

Somewhere slaves are plotting their escape

            and Pharaohs hitch their war chariots

            to pursue them. 

Somewhere the fearful faithful

            kneel at the feet of a dying master,

            a maybe Messiah

            who frightened an Empire.

What makes this night different?

            Nothing, son, except that

            you asked the right question.

            Now, what are we going

            to do about it?

—Patrick Murfin

Two years ago the first night of Passover fell on Earth Day. At a time when the realities and projections for global ecological catastrophe have never been greater moved me to wonder—What if?

The Plague of Locusts was just one of the punishing catastrophes visited on the Egyptians in Exodus.  The disasters we face are even more chilling.

Passover/Earth Day

April 23, 2016

What if there were no Passover?

            What if no sacrificial blood

            smeared on the lintel

            offered any protection?

What if there were no Us and Them?

            What if the Pharaoh’s son

            and our sons fell alike

            from the same dark curse?

What if the Dark Angels were not Yahweh’s?

            What if they were our creation,

            evoked by our carelessness

            and fed by our greed?

What if there were nowhere to flee?

            What if no haven or Promise Land

            lay waiting even after wandering

            because we have laid waste to it too?

What if there were no Milk and Honey?

            What if our goats all starved,

            we killed the bees

            and parched the earth bare?

What if there were no Seder tables to lay?

            What if there were no progeny

            to ask what makes this night different,

            no generations ever again?

What if this is no mere nightmare?

—Patrick Murfin

           

But Passover has always had a dark side, almost forgotten, glossed over, or muttered under the breath—the fate of all of those Egyptian children.  It is easy to do, especially if you envision only the sons of Pharaoh and his court—a just punishment for a king who had ordered the slaughter of Jewish babes when he got wind of a rumor that a liberator would be born among them.  But death was visited not just on the elite, but upon all Egypt and families of every class and caste.  And that sounds, to modern ears, a bit harsh.

At Seder meals Jews acknowledge this in singing Dayenu:

Verse 3:

            If He had destroyed their idols,         

            and had not smitten their first-born  

            — Dayenu, it would have sufficed!              

Verse 4:

            If He had smitten their first-born,                 

and had not given us their wealth                 

— Dayenu, it would have sufficed!

 

A modern reflection on the Plague of Darkness by Russian born and trained  Isreali artist Elisheva Ness.

All of this got me wondering…do the lives of one set of innocents have to be the price for the freedom and safety of another people?  Are the babes and children of Dresden, Hiroshima, or some dusty village on the Afghan frontier God’s just collateral damage for our noble freedom?  Do Palestinian dead buy just safety for a people nearly exterminated by others?

Uncomfortable questions, and undoubtedly ones some would wish un-asked.

Four years ago Passover coincided  not with a Blue Moon, but with a Blood Moon, a rare total eclipse under just the right atmospheric conditions that make the Moon darkened by the Earth’s umbra seem to turn red.

Lamentions Over the Death of the First Born of Egyp by Charles Sprague Pearce.

Blood Moon/Egyptian Passover

April 15/2014

Was there a Blood Moon

that terrible night

long, long ago?

Khonsu, Disk of the Moon

            was eaten,

            turning the color

            of old blood.

The wails of the women

            leapt from house to house,

            hovel to tent,

            it is said even to

            the palaces themselves.

The curses of the men

            bearing the limp bodies

            of their sons

            into the dark air

            damning the Moon

                        the Jews,

                                    Pharaoh himself.

What quarrel between bondsmen,

            the mighty and their Priests

            belongs to them, not us.

We are the farmers,

            fishers of the River    

                        and the seas,

            the shepherds, the weavers,

            the folk who cast pots,

            the brewers of beer,

            the molders of simple brick

                        from mud and dung,

            the house slaves

                        and wet nurses,

            the prostitutes…

What care we for those palaces,

            those temples,

                        those monuments,

those damnable tombs,

                        or the slaves who build them!

No Jews dug our wells,

            laid course of simple brick

            for our homes,

            piled a single stone on stone

            on our graves

            to save our dead

            from the jackals.

Yet they called down on us

            the frogs,

            spoiled our grain

            with locust,

            stoned our kids and lambs

            to death by hail,

            our flesh that erupted

            in festering boils.

And now our very sons!

What harm did they do you,

            you Jews?

If your damn God

            is so powerful

            why did you not call him

            to just wipe out Pharaoh,

                        the Priests,

                                    the Generals in their chariots,

                                                and all their minions

            who have had their sandals

            on our necks

            since time began?

Such a God would be

worth worshiping!

Your freedom—and ours—

would be one!

—Patrick Murfin