I wake to a glorious absurdity.
'Risen from the dead' – what divine nonsense!
Death is death, and that's it;
there is no undiscovered country,
no other shore across a final sea.
Yet twenty centuries on, twenty disciples
and one dog,
climb the hill in the morning gloaming,
as drizzle falls,
and tell the nonsense story once again,
and believe
that our sense isn't God's sense.
And the world over
on hills, in houses and holy places
believers throng
to greet the one who wouldn't let
death be.
The downs have disappeared into the mist.
St Martha's is a stubborn island
where shadowy trees stand sentinel,
as twenty defiant disciples and one dog
sing praise, sing praise to God amidst the gloom.
'Risen from the dead' – what divine nonsense!
Death is death, and that's it;
there is no undiscovered country,
no other shore across a final sea.
Yet twenty centuries on, twenty disciples
and one dog,
climb the hill in the morning gloaming,
as drizzle falls,
and tell the nonsense story once again,
and believe
that our sense isn't God's sense.
And the world over
on hills, in houses and holy places
believers throng
to greet the one who wouldn't let
death be.
The downs have disappeared into the mist.
St Martha's is a stubborn island
where shadowy trees stand sentinel,
as twenty defiant disciples and one dog
sing praise, sing praise to God amidst the gloom.
