Here at the centre everything is still
Before the stir and movement of our grief
Which bears its pain with rhythm, ritual,
Beautiful useless gestures of relief.
So they anoint the skin that cannot feel
Soothing his ruined flesh with tender care,
Kissing the wounds they know they cannot heal,
With incense scenting only empty air.
He blesses every love that weeps and grieves
And makes our grief the pangs of a new birth.
The love that’s poured in silence at old graves
Renewing flowers, tending the bare earth,
Is never lost. In him all love is found
And sown with him, a seed in the rich ground.
Malcolm Guite https://malcolmguite.wordpress.com/2019/04/20/holy-saturday-stations-xiii-and-xiv-3/?fbclid=IwAR33GgNAAUbco8WMwettRhbE4XaIUYI3TzTZEyC6K3-WrdPgywXUtTKyEzM