Martin Jack

Ash Wednesday Revisited

Because I do not hope to turn
- T.S. Eliot, ‘Ash Wednesday’

i

Come, turn again
to the blessed voice

while twisting
on the vacant stairs.

The bowl is full of ashes
honey sweet for the transitory hour

that strikes as a priest whispers
his first confession on the air

his conscience knee-skinned,
kneeling on hard marble floor.

After mourning God answers
the dry bones with life-

giving wind that blows where
it will in the quiet deserted lots

of the mind, redeemed
at the edge of the garden.

Ash marks the spot on the brow
where God claims his people.

On their face ashen crosses
unveil new creations

before the groaning rocks
who cannot pray

but bend their wills only
to God’s reign, awaiting

his mysterious timing
for the redemption of flesh.

Martin Jack © 2010

ii

All our Lent Wednesdays
spent breathless in the pews

quicken to Easter birth,
the memory of sins shed

like skin in the shadow
of the cross, until finally spent

purged with the fasting
of trinkets for a time

forgetting ourselves in the light,
that swallows our darkness

and spits it out of mind
into the sea.

This is preparation,
smoothing what we thought

was beyond repair
as the blood beckons us

to redeem the dream
of holiness where trees flower

and dress themselves
in a white gown,

where we hope to turn
again to the Word within

and without, leaving the lost
heart at the cemetery gates

as we throw the ash
over our shoulders.

iii

Within, we listen to the Comforter
teaching us to be a cathedral

made of the supernatural fruit
of the vineyard.

Without we sing hymns
that rise upwards

carrying sacrificial music
out of our scattered voices

to the beating chamber
of God’s father heart.

There the Word rests,
whistling amidst the noise of men

praying for those who oppose
until this ash-tinted day

becomes theirs,
and the whole world turns

from adultery to sowing
the seeds of grace;

and smokes the blasphemous
names on its swollen belly

in the Valley of Slaughter ,
glad to be united

with the Eminence
as its prayers for mercy

shake eternal whispers
from the dust.

Martin Jack © 2010