poem for Holy Week

Impassioned by Christ

Gethsemane –
and i am a pebble
pressing against His knee
as He kneels in the garden.

i am a stripe on His back
when He’s beaten
thirty-nine times.
Yes, count them –

thirty-nine times.

i am a thorn
in His crown,
a nail
in His palm,
a cave
where, lifeless,
He’s lain.

i am a hollow
space, an empty
shelf, an unoccupied
absent at His revival –
but filled
with passion
at His arrival.

i am forgiven.

I Am Risen.

by Mary Harwell Sayler from poetry book Lost in Faith


Resources for Christians

If you’re a communicator for Christ, as I am, you can find Writing Resources with Christian poets, writers, and pastors in mind on my website.

In addition, I hope you’ll follow these blogs, which I maintain as often as family, church, and book-writing commitments allow:

Bible Prayers
Bible Reviewer
Mary Sayler (in lieu of this site)
Poetry Editor & Poetry
Praise Poems (many of which have been compiled in the book PRAISE! and the forthcoming chapbook, WE: the people under God.)
What the Bible Says About Love

May God bless you and your good work in Christ.

Mary Harwell Sayler, (c) 2017


Who is My mother?

sayler cover april 10 full (2) (640x474)Stone Jars

She hadn’t meant to check the flow of wine,
but, when it ended, suddenly, their em-
bryonic time together ran out too, springing
across those six steps of the universe
and descending into six stone jars
of water.

For one creative moment, they rehearsed
another hour, transparent,
with transformations yet to come,
and, still, He asked, so like a child,
What has this to do with Me or you?”

She had no answer for Him,
no command, no sign
but poured, instead, instructions
onto the waiting stewards
of the wedding wine.

Do as He says,” she simply said,
but making it as clear as water
that she knew Him as The One
to trust.

by a crowd half-crazed with disbelief,
she sought Him – called Him home –
like any good mother apt to calm
a storm with solemn warnings
and warm bowls of chicken soup.

But He’d grown so far beyond the womb –
empty now, swept clean –
she scarcely knew what He might mean
by sowing words, seeded,
seemingly, with thorns:

Who is My mother?”

How could this Child she’d borne
say such a thing, and yet, she knew
the sound of truth which stoned
her laboring heart with pain:

Whoever does God’s will,
alone can bear the jar
of mothering again.

by Mary Harwell Sayler, (c) 2016
from the book of Bible-based poems, Outside Eden, published in 2014

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