SEVEN STANZAS AT EASTER


Make no mistake: if He rose at all
it was as His body;
if the cells’ dissolution did not reverse,
the molecules
reknit, the amino acids rekindle,
the Church will fall.

It was not as the flowers,
each soft Spring recurrent;
it was not as His Spirit in the
mouths and fuddled
eyes of the eleven apostles;
it was as His flesh: ours.

The same hinged thumbs and toes,
the same valved heart
that-pierced-died, withered,
paused, and then
regathered out of enduring Might
new strength to enclose.

Let us not mock God with metaphor,
analogy, sidestepping, transcendence;
making of the event a parable, a
sign painted in the
faded credulity of earlier ages:
let us walk through the door.

The stone is rolled back, not papier-mâché,
not a stone in a story,
but the vast rock of materiality
that in the slow
grinding of time will eclipse for
each of us
the wide light of day.

And if we will have an angel at the tomb,
make it a real angel,
weighty with Max Planck’s quanta,
vivid with hair,
opaque in the dawn light, robed in
real linen
spun on a definite loom.

Let us not seek to make it less monstrous,
for our own convenience, our own
sense of beauty,
lest, awakened in one unthinkable
hour, we are embarrassed by the miracle,
and crushed by remonstrance.

- John Updike (1932–2009)

A whole generation, two now, of Modernists who run and staff the Conciliar Church, including Ratzinger, Mueller and the whole gang, don’t actually believe that Jesus Christ rose from the dead in the flesh. Here is a poetic rebuke, all the more poignant for its unusual source, from John Updike. What a world. Godless fiction authors must defend the fact of dogma from popes and bishops. - Bishop Dolan

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