Christ is risen! He is risen, indeed! Alleluia!

These are not very original selections - but can you imagine Easter without them? These are all great poems and every one of them so different yet on the same subject. It's hard to choose which I like best - or even what my favorite line is.

Donne's poem is the marching song for harrowing hell - I'm sure it's what the patriarchs chanted as Christ led them triumphant out of Hades' realm.

The lyrical lilt of Cummings' "King Christ this world is all aleak/and lifepreservers there are none" is so great that I am forced to write my Easter sermon by its light.

But the best line of all the three, perhaps the best line in all of poetry is by Updike: "Spun on a definite loom." Heavens above and earth below: that is a great line!

It is the best line in all poetry. About this there can be no debate.

Happy Easter.

Jehovah buried, Satan dead

by e.e. cummings

Jehovah buried, Satan dead,

do fearers worship Much and Quick;

badness not being felt as bad,

itself thinks goodness what is meek;

obey says toc, submit says tic,

Eternity's a Five Year Plan:

if Joy with Pain shall hand in hock

who dares to call himself a man?

go dreamless knaves on Shadows fed,

your Harry's Tom, your Tom is Dick;

while Gadgets murder squawk and add,

the cult of Same is all the chic;

by instruments, both span and spic,

are justly measured Spic and Span:

to kiss the mike if Jew turn kike

who dares to call himself a man?

loudly for Truth have liars pled,

their heels for Freedom slaves will click;

where Boobs are holy, poets mad,

illustrious punks of Progress shriek;

when Souls are outlawed, Hearts are sick,

Hearts being sick, Minds nothing can:

if Hate's a game and Love's a fuck

who dares to call himself a man?

King Christ,this world is all aleak;

and lifepreservers there are none:

and waves which only He may walk

Who dares to call Himself a man.

Seven Stanzas for Easter

by John Updike

Make no mistake: if he rose at all

It was as His body;

If the cell’s dissolution did not reverse, the molecule 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-mache,

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 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.

Holy Sonnet X

John Donne

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so;

For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow

Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,

Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee do go,

Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.

Thou'art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,

And poppy'or charms can make us sleep as well

And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally,

And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.