There in God’s garden stands the Tree of Wisdom,

whose leaves hold forth the healing of the nations:

Tree of all knowledge, Tree of all compassion,

Tree of all beauty.

Its name is Jesus, name that says, “Our Savior!”

There on its branches see the scars of suffering;

see there the tendrils of our human selfhood

feed on its lifeblood.

Thorns not its own are tangled in its foliage;

our greed has starved it, our despite has choked it,

Yet, look! it lives! its grief has not destroyed it

nor fire consumed it.

See how its branches reach to us in welcome;

hear what the Voice says, “Come to me, ye weary!

Give me your sickness, give me all your sorrow,

I will give blessing.”

This is my ending, this my resurrection;

into your hands, Lord, I commit my spirit.

This have I searched for; now I can possess it.

This ground is holy.

All heaven is singing, “Thanks to Christ whose passion

offers in mercy healing, strength, and pardon.

Peoples and nations, take it, take it freely!”

Amen! My Master!

There are truths in life, truths of human experience, truths of Divine encounter, that are better suited to poetry than to prose, better suited to song than to science, better suited to mystical probing than to measurable pronouncement.  The central majesty and mystery of our faith as Christians—the reality that somehow in the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, God has revealed the fullness of who God is, and that we know that death itself has been conquered and that healing and restoration of the whole world is underway—that central majesty and mystery we gather around each and every Sunday and get give special focus to especially this month as we journey through Holy Week and begin the great 50 days of Easter… that is just such a truth.  Better poetry than prose.

 And so, in this space I shall neither try to “explain” the meaning of the cross, nor of the resurrection.  No human words are adequate to such a task.  Yet somehow, the words of the poet strike at least a little closer, a little fuller, a little truer.  For your meditation in these weeks, therefore, I commend to you the hymn words above, which come to us from a 17^th century Hungarian Reformed pastor named Péscelyi Király Imre, by way of paraphrased translation into English by the great 20^th century British hymn scholar Erik Routley.  Full of images and allusions that span the whole breadth of the biblical scriptures, the poet coaxes our hearts into new contemplation and ecstasy at the mercy, mystery, and majesty of God made known in Jesus.

 I look forward to being with you all as we together gather to dwell in the ‘poetry’ of sorts that is the substance of our worship life together as we journey through this most holy time of year.  A blessed Holy Week to all!

Peace, —Matt