… I could see, too, the twitching of the fingers, Caught temporarily in art’s neurosis, As we sat there or warmly applauded This player who so beautifully suffered For each of us upon his instrument. So it must have been on Calvary In the fiercer light of the...
Was he baulked by silence? He kneeled long And saw love in a dark crown Of thorns blazing, and a winter tree Golden with fruit of a man’s body. R.S. Thomas (1913-2000), Song at the Year’s Turning, 1955.
…The Carpenter had done his work well to sustain the carpenter’s burden; the cross an example of the power of art to transcend timber. R.S. Thomas (1913-2000).
Not the empty tomb but the uninhabited cross. Look long enough and you will see the arms put on leaves. Not a crown of thorns but a crown of flowers haloing it, with a bird singing as though perched on paradise’s threshold. R.S. Thomas (1913-2000),...
Have you no words? Ah, think again! Words flow apace when you complain And fill your fellow creature’s ear With the sad tale of all your care. Were half the breath thus vainly spent To heav’n in supplication sent, Your cheerful song would oft’ner be: ’Hear what the...
All is best, though we oft doubt What th’unsearchable dispose Of Highest Wisdom brings about, And ever best found in the close. Oft he seems to hide his face, But unexpectedly returns, And to his faithful champion hath in place Bore witness gloriously; whence Gaza...
These people know me only in the thin hymns of the mind, in the arid sermons and prayers. I am the live God, nailed fast to the old tree of a nation by its unreal tears. I thirst, I thirst for the spring water. Draw it up for me from your heart’s well and I will...
With many tears I went in search of him, Climbing high mountains which did still ascend, And gave me echoes when I called my friend; Through cities vast and charnel-houses grim, And high cathedrals where the light was dim, Through books and arts and works without an...
It is this great absence that is like a presence, that compels me to address it without hope of a reply. It is a room I enter from which someone has just gone, the vestibule for the arrival of one who has not yet come. I modernise the anachronism of my language, but...
I walked abroad in Easter Park, I heard the wild dog’s distant bark, I knew my Lord was risen again,- Wild dog, wild dog, you bark in vain. Stevie Smith (1902-71), Conviction (11),1978.