Tag Archives: Easter

Thoughts Around Eastertide (by Russ Crabtree)

Thoughts Around Eastertide

A fragrant smell,

a gentle touch

And wondrous sights to see,

Music with

harmonious melody;

Gifts beyond all worth

a touch of heaven here on earth;

Five things we have from God,

To touch and taste and see

And smell the fragrance all around

These are given out for free

Last of all I like to stop and listen

As I hear God speak to me.

Easter Weekend Again

So I survived the weekend without alcohol or drugs,

or buying a half price sofa deal, a fixed price laptop,

75% off carpets and whatever else offer was thrown at me.

What I chose to do didn’t end at 6pm today

or demand 19.9% interest over 3 years

or will wear off by lunchtime.


I chose to celebrate everything that has worth,






and forgiveness

are found at The Cross.

Stabat Mater

Amongst the thousands staring

and no-one caring ,

We too stared and stood

next to the Woman alone and weeping

as her hopes were seeping

away into the sinking Sun ;

The crowds had been shouting

with each cheer doubting

the innocence of that Woman’s son ;

We too stood and watched

a woman alone and weeping

as her hopes were seeping ,

and heard in the crowd something odd

perhaps the son of that Woman

was truly the Son of God ;

Amongst the thousands staring

and no-one caring ,

We too stared and stood..

Passion of The Christ ( 2 )

The evidence wasn’t in the nail-marks

that Thomas asked you to show him ,

it wasn’t in the tears that your Mother Mary shed ;

it wasn’t in the arms of Joseph of Aramathea ,

nor in the crown of thorns upon your head ;

It wasn’t there when you walked upon the water ,

nor in the 5000 that your loaves and fishes fed ;

It’s by the promise of your Father

that Grace abounded ,

when at Calvary your blood was shed .

Passion of The Christ ( 1 )

” Fifteen ” ,

” Sixteen ” ,

tears flowing like a tidal flood ;

” Again ! ” ,

” twenty-four ” ,

” twenty-five ” ,

blood coursing in scarlet rivulets seeping down ;

” Again ! ” ,

” thirty-one ” ,

” thirty-two ” ,

flesh flayed torn wounds open to the world ;

” Again ! ” ,

” thirty-eight ” ,

” thirty-nine ” ,

now sublime ineffable Grace subsuming all the hurt ;

and now ,

The Cross …

On this hill

http://youtu.be/7zJe-4sVsfMOn this hill

In darkest daylight

with all sin revealed

the host is lifted high.

There is no melancholy melody to this sacrifice,

no quietude of choir-filled gentility

to align thought and soul.

This altar of absorbing pain

staggers the senses, grips the mind.


This is a solitary place.

A hermitage

crowded with broken hearts

and wounded spirits

oblivious of their fellows.


Let sense be dulled;

for here the sting of death

awaits those who turn their face

for easier vistas.

This unquiet beauty of wracked passion

steals the splendour of simpler creations

and scourges art and word and song.


Tears are the sea

from which this mast arises,

this lighthouse which signifies

wrecking rocks and vicious tides.

The storm which ravages here

breaches time and place,

pulsing of life and void of death.

A lightning flash shears the curtain,

the thunderous roar

a fanfare to sanctity.


On this hill eternity is on trial;

a single soul its witness,

the jury a world of closed eyes.


A timbered suffering sacrifice

sees my small pain

and weeps

for me.


We have,
we all have,
heard the words
and are waiting,
waiting for the hours,
the hours to pass
so that we,
we all
may become
those things,
all those things,
that we had
aspired to become
once the hours
had passed,
and the waiting
was done;
and the words
words long since
could say,
that the waiting
the waiting
would not be
in vain.

Between Easter and Whitsun

“I must have been on the wrong page!”
The wind blown flustering turning
moved the mark,
lost the sense.

This hill of abandonment
closing down all things
in wound and pain.

Your words of love and future,
those eyes
which gave us pictures of a kingdom
where love engulfs,
suddenly lifeless and broken.

Betrayed, we kiss other things,
seeking the smile that blessed our lips.

We wait.

Another wind,
another gusted turning of the page
refines the sense
and the breath returns
in tongues of fire.