Play for us, Lord God. We wish to hear music; the music of heaven. Play notes to calm our fears, soothing our souls from anxiety.
Our world is ripped apart by sounds, discordant, ugly sounds from the bowels of hell – bombs, missiles, bullets, tanks, cries of painful death – Guttural sounds of soldiers. many far from home, tired too, hungry. bewildered, disillusioned.
Ordered about by those whose only tunes are hatred. a cacophony of crashing disharmony – flowing from cankered, disfigured hearts no longer united with the music of the One who created them.
Wars begin in hearts crumpled by demonic blackness. Is this hell? Despair. The concerto of annihilation. No symphony. No sympathy.
But, if You, Lord, play music to us, It will find a way to soothe and caress our troubled souls. Help us to hear the beautiful harmony as you sprinkle note upon note of your kindness and love upon us, enfolding, holding, re-awakening our vision.
As your music lifts our hearts towards the orchestra of heaven. help us to become in tune with your message which tells that there is more than hell on earth. There is earth raised up to heaven.
St Mark’s day is normally celebrated on April 25th, except in years when Easter Week takes precedent. In 2025, therefore, it is kept on April 29th.
One of the key words in the Gospel occurs 42 times in St Mark’s Gospel – the word is euthus” (εὐθύς), which is translated as ‘immediately’, or ‘straightway’. The use of this word gives the Gospel account a sense of urgency. There is an emphasis on the active and dynamic ministry of Jesus. My poem ‘euthus’ below is inspired by the word and its meaning.
Euthus – immediately!
Straightway, he takes up the pen, dips it in the ink: words flow onto parchment at once.
Getting it down immediately as readers wait: impatient to hear this story of faith.
We long for phrases that awaken and challenge the heart; ideas that lift souls in search of meaning; feet, itching for travel, on our pilgrimage to God, are now hope-filled.
Eagerly, we follow way-markers, constructed not with stones but with the pen.
Our souls need feeding and our minds are thirsty for truth. The parchment lays itself open to the pen, which breathlessly recounts the story: the wonderful Good News that enlivens us.
Straightway, words take shape: ‘The beginning of the Good News of Jesus Christ, the Son of God……..’
Wild daffodils in the Lake District photographed by my friend Gill Henwood
In this coming week, we who live in the earth’s Northern Hemisphere, move from the season of Winter to that of Spring. The Spring equinox is often known as the ‘Astronomical’ Spring to differentiate it from the ‘Meteorological’ Spring which is used by weather forecasters and is always on March 1st. The season of Spring generally falls on either March 20th or 21st (19th in a Leap Year) This year it is on March 20th. Nature, however, prefers to set its own time and has already begun showing growth from the earth; songs from the birds and a gentle ‘greening’ of the leaves as trees create a dusting of new life.
One of the most important signs is the arrival of spring flowers, especially the Daffodil which symbolises re-birth and hope. The poet, Cecil Day-Lewis, calls the ‘full-throated’ daffodil, “our trumpeters of gold” which “call resurrection from the ground.” This association with Easter has also led to daffodils being called ‘Lenten Lilies’ because they tend to flower in the period between Ash Wednesday and Easter Sunday. (Sometimes they naughtily come too early for church flower displays when Easter Day is late!)
The most famous poem about the Daffodil begins with the words, “I wandered lonely as a cloud” which begins the Daffodil poem by William Wordsworth. It drew its inspiration from his sister, Dorothy, with whom he took a walk around the Lake District on the 15th April, 1802. We know the exact date and the detail of the journey from Dorothy’s diary, published later as her ‘Grasmere Journal’. Intrepid walkers, Dorothy wrote that the weather was threatening, misty but mild’, though the wind was ‘furious’. She described the walk in great detail including avoiding some cows! She noted the flowers they saw along the way – wood sorrel, anemone, scentless violets and a starry yellow flower known locally as pile wort. When they got to woods beyond Gowbarrow they saw a few wild daffodils close to the water-side and Dorothy then wrote in her journal:
“as we went along there were more and yet more; and at last, under the boughs of the trees, we saw that there was a long belt of them along the shore, about the breadth of a country turnpike road. I never saw daffodils so beautiful. They grew among the mossy stones about and above them; some rested their heads upon these stones, as on a pillow, for weariness; and the rest tossed and reeled and danced, and seemed as if they verily laughed with the wind, that blew upon them over the lake; they looked so gay, ever glancing, ever changing.
It has been suggested that it was these words which inspired her brother, William, to write his own poem in praise of daffodils. The sentiments and imagery expressed by Dorothy are certainly traceable in his poem. William became famous and eventually Poet Laureate whilst Dorothy was all but forgotten at the time but there are some who would suggest that his daffodil poem might constitute plagiarism! What can be certainly said is that between them they helped to make the Daffodil become a joyful sign of Spring and of Resurrection. [Mr G]
photo GH
I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o’er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed—and gazed—but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.
The last lone bee of the season caresses the flowers of autumn, dusting the late pollen leaving us a legacy, a final squeeze of nectar.
The leaves turn gently, a golden and red canopy of grandeur. a delicious carpet of rustic colour forming flightpath lights guiding the bee to her winter resting place.