There is wonderment more in the Kingdom of Heaven
Than all of the glories on all of the Earth;
The colours are brighter, the music is sweeter,
Forever and perfect and never in dearth.
There is beauty and love in the Kingdom of Heaven
Far greater than ever we know on this Earth –
But strange how the holy are nervous to claim it,
And dawdle below to delay their next berth.
There is marvel enough in the Kingdom of Heaven
To fill up a thousandfold worlds with its mirth –
Or so it is promised, and why should we doubt it,
Inspite how we cling to all life all it’s worth.
But I can wait long for the Kingdom of Heaven
To sup on this world from its poles to its girth.
There may be a paradise waiting in Heaven,
There’s surely a paradise thriving on Earth.
There are still things that you don’t understand, he said,
Things that your science cannot yet command, he said,
Things that will always be strange and unplanned,
Till you see our Lord God at their head.
That’s true, but I think you are crowing too soon, I said,
True, but we’re learning, for all you impugn, I said,
True, but just shrugging won’t fly to the moon,
But it will gawp up limply instead.
Why, oh why
Does Friar Fry
Regard himself as I & I ?
My questing question grew and grew,
As fruitlessly I’d try and try
To fathom out that guily guy.
I chewed that puzzle through-and-through
For where the answers likely lie –
He knew, of course, he knew I knew,
But gladly let my brooding brew.
His glance was always slightly sly,
As if to say I’m using you !
I may yet further crew accrue –
Am I not worth my duet due ? And so, dejected, by-the-by,
I looked him in the eye and eye
And bid he share his news anew: “Oh Friar Fry, pray wise me why
You see the world as mine & my ?” He looked me back and sighed a sigh
And said “You know what’s truly true ?
We each and all are two-by-two:
Both I & I, and you & you.”
I woke that morning, I recall,
Surprised somewhat I woke at all;
And out my window, plain to see,
My street was smoky-ruins-free.
In fact, so fine a morning shone,
My coat I had no call to don:
The larks still sang, the doves still perched,
And nowhere sulphur rained, nor zombies lurched.
I walked on through that wrathless dawn, Alive ! Alive and springing ! I gaped for lack of demon-spawn, Alive ! Alive and swinging ! I fed the ducks, I named the clouds,
I mingled with bewildered crowds –
We wore no coats, we wore no shrouds, Alive ! Alive and singing ! Our lives would never be the same,
That day that Jesus never came.
I gawped that morning, hollered out,
Surprised I had the breath to shout
I danced with gnats, I waltzed with trees,
I hugged the rain and kissed the breeze.
I cried with strangers, wept with folk,
I stuttered ev’ry word I spoke;
I didn’t care, I couldn’t mind,
I thanked the Lord that I was left behind.
I ran on through that wretchless day, Alive ! Alive and wheeling ! I laughed for lack of human prey, Alive ! Alive and reeling ! I leapt, I skipped or simply stood,
I didn’t care for ought or should –
I sang and sang because I could, Alive ! Alive and feeling ! Our lives were ours ! There was no shame,
That day that Jesus never came.
So when you turn to pray in the facing-Mecca way
Do you use the Great Circles or the Rhumbs ?
Cos both have got it wrong, for the route that’s shortest-long,
Shall be diving through the mantel as she comes.
Saint George & The Dragon by the Salviati Workshop, Woolwich Garrison church
For England & St George
Up in Heaven-on-the-Clouds
You works on our behalf,
Pushing through the saintly crowds
To bat for Halifax and Bath,
And bring to Lynn and Dale of Borrow
Sun today and jam tomorrow.
Working hard in Upper Eden,
Pushing England’s cause.
You wouldn’t get the saint of Sweden
Cheering on so many wars:
Rule Britannia, Hope & Glory –
Welcome to the national story.
Tea and crumpets, trains and cricket,
Stratford to South Shields.
There you lurk, on moor and thicket,
Anglicising foreign fields.
Who needs Alban, Bede or Swithun ?
Give us Bowie, Dench and Niven !
But wait, I hear the Genoese
Have hired your service too;
And Catalans, and Portuguese,
And Greek and Germans join the queue –
The Georgian and the Muscovite
Are proud to sport your red and white.
And soldiers, archers, and the Scouts,
Equestrians and knights,
And farmers rearing sheep and sprouts
Are likewise firmly in your sights.
I do hope, George, with all this lot
That England’s voice won’t be forgot.
And then there’s leprosy and plague,
And syphilis to boot,
But here your role is rather vague
On how you earn your extra loot:
Helping patients come to terms ?
Or do you represent the germs ?
And back home in your country seat,
Its lord is rarely seen;
In ancient times, your sandalled feet
Came nowhere near our mountains green.
But hey, who cares from where you’ve strayed –
For Englishmen aren’t born, but made.
You spend your days in Greater Blighty,
Meeting with the Boss –
Asking him to make us mighty,
From Land’s End to Gerrard’s Cross
You always done us proud, our George,
When lobbying for Cheddar Gorge.
“And, behold, the veil of the temple was rent in twain from the top to the bottom; and the earth did quake, and the rocks rent; And the graves were opened; and many bodies of the saints which slept arose, And came out of the graves after his resurrection, and went into the holy city, and appeared unto many.”
Matthew, chapter 27, verses 51-53
And the very earth shook beneath us,
And the sky came dark and the veil of the temple was rent;
As the Son at last came to leave us,
So the tombs where slept the saints were breached as He went.
And there they sat, arisen yet still,
Since so long dead, they patiently waited
For a night and a day and a night until
On Sunday morn, they arrived belated. Zombies on the loose, they come !
Zombies in Jerusalum !
And yet not a word was spoken,
As He was interred by Joseph of Arimathea,
Of other tombs that were broken –
For surely he witnessed the quaking’s rough aftermath here ?
For there they sat, arisen yet still,
Awaiting the one who had yet to be buried;
So lay Him within the sepulchre’s chill
And roll up the stone, his soul long ferried. Zombies yet procrastinate, Zombies lurk and zombies wait.
And still not a word was spoken
By the Marys on Sunday making their way to His tomb,
As they passed all the saints newly woken,
As another earth-tremor gave sanction to auto-exhume.
No more they sat – unprisoned, unstill:
Now great was their stagg’ring and groaning as any;
As stumbling and jerking, they lurched down the hill
To Jerusalem, to the marvel of many. Zombies, rotten of complexion !
Zombies join the Resurrection !
And never more a word was spoken
By the Twelve at the Pentecost, only a few weeks on –
When their voices were no longer choken,
But gabbled in tongues – yet not asking where the dead had all gone.
Where now they sat ? Or risen they still ?
Where went their mission, so silent of news ?
What is the purpose they mean to fulfil ?
Is this what is meant by Wandering Jews ? Zombies, born again through Christ !
Zombies, torn from Paradise !
And still not a word is spoken,
And the puzzling verse is never read out in church.
No statue or stained glass token
Celebrate animate saints as they stumble and lurch.
And those who are sit in the pews quite still
And pretend that the verse is a metaphor or test –
I guess they haven’t the need or the will
To admit to themselves that it might be a jest. Zombies, clinging to their mask,
Zombies, too afraid to ask.
