Strange Easter, death put in its place

A week to let the strange glory of Easter sink in. Here are some thoughts by the priest-poet Malcolm Guite:

On this strange Easter Day, we will discover that Jesus is not lost somewhere in our locked churches, any more than he was sealed in the sepulchre. He is up and out and risen, long before us. He is as much at work in the world as the spring is at work in the blossoms. On this Easter Day, the Risen Christ, who might have been a wafer in the hands of the priest, will be strength in the hands of the nurse, a blessing in the hands of the carer. He goes with them to their work as surely as he came to us in our church. Victory over this virus is some way off, but victory over death is already achieved.

And Malcolm quotes this defiant sonnet by John Donne, putting death in its place:

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for thou art 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.