Greg Tricker (British, 1951–), Magdalene: The Tomb, 2010. Oil, acrylic, and gold leaf on wood door, 33 3/8 × 32 1/2 in. (84.7 × 82.6 cm).
I learned about Greg Tricker from Sister Wendy Beckett, a nun who narrated several BBC docuseries about art throughout the 1990s. In the following Piano Nobile video from 2011, Sister Wendy converses with Tricker at Gloucester Cathedral about his exhibition Pillars of Faith. While they don’t discuss Magdalene: The Tomb, which is shown at 1:03, they do discuss a similar painting at 7:11.
LISTEN: “They Have Taken Him” by The Soil and The Seed Project | Words by Greg Yoder, 2023 | Music by Greg Yoder, Valerie Bess, and Taylor Bess, 2023 | Performed by Valerie Bess and Taylor Bess on The Soil and The Seed Project, Volume 9: Lent, Easter, Pentecost, 2024
Early on the first day of the week I slip into the darkness while the garden lies sleeping Feel the dew upon my hand, cool from the weeping of the stone Night still clings heavy like a shroud I whisper to the emptiness, and the echo is as loud As thunder, it’s a wonder the dead slumber and leave us here alone
They have taken him, and I do not know where he’s gone
Then all the world is in motion Running like the waves trying to outrun the ocean They overtake each other, brother tumbling over brother To the threshold, but daring not go in Standing in the flowers, unbelieving Hearing voices in the garden, “Woman, why are you grieving?” They have taken him away And I do not know where they have taken him
They have taken him, and I do not know where he’s gone Someone has taken him, and I do not know where he’s gone
Now I have seen the lilies of the field And I have seen the sparrows winging o’er But if this is how you show your love I’m not sure that I can take much more
Early on the first day of the week I slip into the darkness where the gardener is keeping Watch over the mourning ones He’ll watch until the morning comes aflame “Sir, if you have carried him away Tell me where you laid him so I may go to him today” His silence breaks my spirit, then so soft I barely hear it He remakes me with the whisper of my name
They have not taken him; I have seen the coming dawn I know they have not taken him; I know I’ve seen the coming dawn
The two earliest surviving complete manuscripts of the Gospel of Mark in Greek (the Codex Sinaiticus and the Codex Vaticanus), in narrating the visit of the women to Jesus’s tomb on Easter morning, do not include 16:9–20, the so-called longer ending of Mark. Instead, they end on an abrupt and astonishing note, stating that when the women saw the empty tomb and received the angel’s announcement that Jesus had risen, “they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement [or bewilderment] had seized them, and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid” (16:8). Fear, confusion, and silence—not a very triumphant way to cap off the story of Jesus’s life, death, and resurrection!
The longer ending provides more closure and galvanization. It recounts Jesus appearing to Mary Magdalene, to two disciples “walking into the country” (to Emmaus, most likely), and to the Eleven, whom Jesus commissions to preach the gospel throughout the world. He then ascends into heaven. This longer ending concludes with an exultant verse 20: “And they went out and proclaimed the good news everywhere, while the Lord worked with them and confirmed the message by the signs that accompanied it.”
Most biblical scholars, even the most theologically conservative, believe Mark 16:9–20 to be a later addition by another author, for reasons including its absence in early manuscripts, the ignorance of some church fathers such as Origen and Clement of Alexandria about the verses, and its differences in language and style from the rest of Mark. Thus, nearly all English translations of Mark place 16:9–20 in brackets.
However, the longer ending is quoted regularly by ecclesiastical writers, including from the patristic era, and became the almost universal ending of Mark in later manuscripts. Although it contains a few unique emphases, it is consistent with the rest of the New Testament, and no major doctrine is affected by whether one views verse 8 or verse 20 as the canonical ending.
I, for one, am intrigued by what most consider to be Mark’s original ending: “They were afraid.” It honors the complicated emotions of Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Salome, who had just seen a celestial being and been notified of an event that would change the course of history. I’d be trembling too. Maybe they didn’t tell the others right away because they wanted to take a little time to gather themselves, to process. Maybe the shock had rendered them temporarily speechless, physically unable to utter a word.
But we know from the witness of the other Gospels (Matt. 28:8; Luke 24:8–11; John 20:18) that the women did, of course, tell the apostles the news—startling, joyous, transforming—and it birthed a global movement of Christ followers committed to sharing and embodying his message of love.
José Clemente Orozco (Mexican, 1883–1949), La casa blanca (The White House), ca. 1925. Oil on canvas, 25 3/16 × 30 1/2 in. (64 × 77.5 cm). Museo de Arte Carrillo Gil, Mexico City.
This easel painting by the famous Mexican artist José Clemente Orozco, best known for his murals, shows three frightened women standing in the dark outside a small rectangular stone or cement structure against which leans a dry tree. We don’t know what they’re reacting to, as it’s out of frame, but they are clearly alarmed and appear to be fleeing.
The response of the women at the tomb in Mark’s Gospel—to run away frightened—is depicted here. The Resurrection is suggested by the dazzling light reflected on the white building and in the faces of the women hastening away. (194)
In the object record on its website (which I accessed a few years ago but can no longer find), the Museo de Arte Carrillo Gil, which owns the painting, does not acknowledge this connection and speaks only in more general terms of an “invisible danger” and escape from a hideout.
But I think Imaging the Word’s reading is definitely valid.
LISTEN: “Evangile de la Résurrection (Mc 16, 1-8)” (Good News of the Resurrection, Mark 16:1–8) by the monks of Keur Moussa Abbey, on L’heure vient (The Hour Is Coming) (2007)
1 Le sabbat terminé, Marie Madeleine, et Marie, la mère de Jacques, et Salomé achetèrent des parfums pour aller embaumer le corps de Jésus. 2 De grand matin, le premier jour de la semaine, elles se rendent au sépulcre au lever du soleil. 3 Elles se disaient entre elles : « Qui nous roulera la pierre pour dégager l’entrée du tombeau ? » 4 Au premier regard, elles s’aperçoivent qu’on a roulé la pierre, qui était pourtant très grande. 5 En entrant dans le tombeau, elles virent, assis à droite, un jeune homme vêtu de blanc. Elles sont saisies de peur. 6 Mais il leur dit : « N’ayez pas peur ! Vous cherchez Jésus de Nazareth, le Crucifié ? Il est ressuscité : il n’est pas ici. Voici l’endroit où on l’avait déposé. 7 Et maintenant, allez dire à ses disciples et à Pierre : “Il vous précède en Galilée. Là vous le verrez, comme il vous l’a dit.” » 8 Elles sortirent et s’enfuirent du tombeau, parce qu’elles étaient toutes tremblantes et hors d’elles-mêmes. Elles ne dirent rien à personne, car elles avaient peur.
English translation(NRSVue):
1 When the Sabbath was over, Mary Magdalene and Mary the mother of James and Salome bought spices, so that they might go and anoint him. 2 And very early on the first day of the week, when the sun had risen, they went to the tomb. 3 They had been saying to one another, “Who will roll away the stone for us from the entrance to the tomb?” 4 When they looked up, they saw that the stone, which was very large, had already been rolled back. 5 As they entered the tomb, they saw a young man dressed in a white robe sitting on the right side, and they were alarmed. 6 But he said to them, “Do not be alarmed; you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been raised; he is not here. Look, there is the place they laid him. 7 But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you.” 8 So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them, and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.
This setting of the words of Mark 16:1–8 in French, sung to a tenor kora accompaniment, comes from Keur Moussa Abbey in Senegal [previously]. According to the liner notes of the CD, the melody is inspired by a Mandinka scale reminiscent of the Latin Gospel chant of the Easter Vigil.
The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle[dove] is heard in our land.
—Song of Solomon 2:12 (KJV)
LOOK: Mann mit Vögeln by Max Hunziker
Max Hunziker (Swiss, 1901–1976), Mann mit Vögeln (Man with Birds), n.d. Lithograph, edition 56/120, 81 × 58 cm.
LISTEN: “The Song of the Birds” | Words by Arthur Cleveland Coxe, 1862 | Music by Wilder Adkins, 2023 | Performed by Wilder Adkins with Eliza King on Cardiphonia’s Resurrect, vol. 1, 2023
The winter is over and gone at last; The days of snow and cold are past. Over the fields the flowers appear; It is the Spirit’s voice we hear, voice we hear.
Refrain 1: The singing of birds, a warbling band, And the Spirit’s voice, The voice of all truth, And the fountain of youth Is heard in our land, is heard in our land.
The tomb, it was sealed, a rock at its door; But winter is gone and comes no more. The seal is broken and now are seen Valleys and woods and gardens green, and gardens green.
Refrain 2: The singing of birds, a warbling band, And flowеrs are words Which even a child, So free and so wild, May undеrstand, surely understand.
And Christ is the song of everything, For death is winter, and Christ is spring. Fountains that warble in purling words, Hark, how they echo the song of birds, the song of birds.
Refrain 3: The singing of birds, a warbling band, And the purling words Of sea and of surf And mountain streams pure, Are heard in our land, are heard in our land.
This hymn text originally appeared in ANew Service and Tune Book for Sunday School by Alfred Bailey Goodrich (Utica, New York, 1862), and its author, Rev. Dr. A. Cleveland Coxe, the second Episcopal bishop of Western New York, later compiled it in his collection of original poems The Paschal: Poems for Passion-tide and Easter (New York, 1889). Wilder Adkins has lightly adapted it and set it to music—a light, gentle, lilting melody.
Many hymns connect springtime, with its flowering abundance and sunshiny warmth, to Christ’s resurrection. But Coxe bowled me over with these two lines that articulate the metaphor so freshly: “And Christ is the song of everything, / For death is winter, and Christ is spring.” Wow!
LOOK: The Resurrection, from an Ethiopian Gospel book
The Resurrection, from an Ethiopian Gospel book, 18th century. Ink and pigment on parchment, 38.5 × 32.5 cm. Dublin, Chester Beatty, W 912, fol. 30r.
This painting comes from an illuminated manuscript of the Gospels of Matthew and Mark, made in Ethiopia in the eighteenth century. Christ’s tomb is at the bottom, empty, its interior in shadow, for Christ has burst forth from it. The Roman soldiers tasked with standing guard are portrayed mostly as buffoons—one with his hat over his face, another asleep on his shield. Only the feather-helmeted third seems to be aware of what has happened, and ponders it.
Chained at Christ’s feet are personifications of Death (a pale corpse) and Hell (a winged, horned devil), derived from Revelation 1:17–18, where Christ says, “I am the First and the Last and the Living One. I was dead, and see, I am alive forever and ever, and I have the keys of Death and of Hades.”
Christ points upward to the Father, to whom he’s ascending. The angels make a pathway for him through the clouds and pay him reverence as he passes. His green mantle and flag suggest life, hope, renewal.
LISTEN: “Et resurrexit” (And He Rose Again) by Johann Sebastian Bach, from his Mass in B minor (BWV 232), 1749 | Performed by The English Concert, dir. Harry Bicket, 2012
Et resurrexit tertia die, Secundum Scripturas. Et ascendit in caelum: Sedet ad dexteram Patris. Et iterum venturus est cum gloria, Judicare vivos et mortuos: Cujus regni non erit finis.
And he rose again the third day, According to the scriptures. And he ascended into heaven: He sits at the right hand of the Father. And he shall come again with glory To judge the living and the dead: Of his kingdom there shall be no end.
Comprising twenty-seven movements across four parts, Bach’s (primarily) B minor setting of the Latin Mass [previously] is widely regarded as one of the highest achievements of classical music. “Et resurrexit” (And he rose again) is the sixth movement of part 2, “Symbolum Nicenum” (Nicene Creed). Composed in D major in a baroque dance form, it is a triumphant five-part chorus (Soprano I, Soprano II, Alto, Tenor, Bass) backed by trumpets, flutes, oboes, timpani, violins, viola, and basso continuo. Its triple meter reinforces the idea of the third day.
Can you hear how much Bach loves the words he ornaments? Melismatic figures, rising octave leaps—such ebullience and play!
Christ is risen! He is risen indeed! Happy Easter, friends.
LOOK: Crucifixion sur la ville and Résurrection by Arcabas
Arcabas (French, 1926–2018), Crucifixion sur la ville (Crucifixion over the City) and Résurrection, from the Petite suite en noir et or (Little Suite in Black and Gold), 1975. Oil on canvas.
There is very little written in English about the sacred French artist Jean-Marie Pirot (1926–2018), known as Arcabas [previously]—which is a shame, because his work is fantastic. I’d love to see it in person someday. Much of it is concentrated at L’église de Saint-Hugues-de-Chartreuse, near where he lived from 1950 until his death. One published source of information about the artist is Dr. David Lyle Jeffrey’s wonderful book In the Beauty of Holiness: Art and the Bible in Western Culture (Eerdmans, 2017); he devotes the book’s final section, pages 349–63, to Arcabas, reproducing in full color seven of his paintings and translating material from French interviews. Jeffrey cites Kirsten Appleyard’s honors thesis at Baylor University from 2009, which he supervised, as the most complete study of the artist’s work available in English, which I believe is still the case.
Unfortunately, the website arcabas.com, from which I gathered photos of many of Arcabas’s works some ten years ago, is now defunct. That’s where today’s featured image was sourced from. The panels are from a larger polyptych, which you can view in this photo of its temporary exhibition at L’église Saint Ignace in Paris. I’m not sure where it resides now.
The left panels portray Jesus being crucified outside the city walls. But the cityscape is not of first-century Jerusalem; it’s a modern French village. As have many artists before him, Arcabas collapses the distance between Jesus’s life and times and his own by transposing Jesus’s death to a familiar setting.
On the right is a lamb whose legs are bound in preparation for sacrifice—an emblem of Christ, who was led “like a lamb . . . to the slaughter” (Isa. 53:7). Opposite the lamb is a snarling wolf, a reference to Psalm 22:16–18:
For dogs are all around me; a company of evildoers encircles me; they bound my hands and feet. I can count all my bones. They stare and gloat over me; they divide my clothes among themselves, and for my clothing they cast lots.
The Crucified One bows his head. His hands, nailed by the wrists to the cross, are contorted in pain. His ribcage protrudes from his emaciated torso. But as he gives up the spirit, it spills out, a silhouette of his form, in gold, dissolving into a sun/halo behind his head. His golden arms are strong, vigorous, alluding to the Resurrection and capturing something of the paradox of the cross, a site of both shame and glory.
In the right panel, which is on a larger scale than the others, granting it preeminence, Christ emerges victorious from a multicolored sarcophagus. He rises bodily, but his form is transfigured, shiny, especially his eyes. Stepping out of the box that cannot contain him, he lifts his hands to reveal the wounds of crucifixion, signs of our redemption. The lustrous swirls about his head could be his wild, windswept hair, or else some kind of electric or mystic force.
This is one of several Resurrection images Arcabas painted during his lifetime. Another one, you can hear the artist discuss (in French) in the following 2005 interview, cued up at 20:26:
This whole KTO TV segment, nearly an hour long, is worth watching if you’re a French speaker! I am not, but a generous follower of my blog, knowing my enthusiasm for Arcabas, translated significant portions of it for me into English.
Since Arcabas’s death, a new online hub has sprung up to showcase his work: https://arcabas.net/. While it doesn’t host as many image files as its .com predecessor, this archive provides helpful location and copyright information, and I believe it’s in a state of expansion.
LISTEN: “The Resurrection” by Richard Smallwood (based on Rachmaninoff’s “Vocalise”), 1982
And he died For our sin and our shame Jesus died For our sins He hung high On a hill called Calvary To save a wretch undone Like you and me
I can’t forget how he died for me He suffered so much on Calvary I can’t forget how they pierced his side And he bowed his head and died
But he rose Conquered death, hell, and grave And he rose With all power Jesus rose Now he lives forevermore Through Christ we now are saved eternally
Richard Smallwood (1948–2025) was a legendary gospel composer, pianist, and singer, known for blending classical music with traditional gospel. For “The Resurrection,” which debuted on the album The Richard Smallwood Singers (1982), he adopted the main theme of Rachmaninoff’s wordless song “Vocalise” as the basis. Meditating on Christ’s crucifixion and then resurrection, Smallwood’s song evolves in tone from elegiac to triumphant.
This is the first post in a daily series for the first eight days of Easter, each one of which will pair a visual artwork with a piece of music to encourage celebration of the risen Christ.
William Blake (British, 1757–1827), The Angels Hovering over the Body of Christ in the Sepulchre, ca. 1805. Watercolor on paper, 42 × 30.2 cm. Victoria and Albert Museum, London.
A robin’s egg in a nest,
a row of yellow tulips, petals closed,
the last few shadowed moments on the eastern horizon,
and Holy Saturday, as Christ was lying in the sealed tomb, and angels were waiting.
Comprising just seven spare lines, this poem is a wonderfully succinct evocation of the anticipation of Easter. An egg about to hatch, a flower about to bloom, the sun about to rise—Leslie Anne Bustard gives us these images from nature to sit with on Holy Saturday, a day of waiting in the still, silent moment before life, light, and beauty break forth from Christ’s tomb and he ambles out, calling our names.
Leslie Anne Bustard (1968–2023) was a teacher, a writer, and a producer of high school and children’s theater in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, where she lived with her husband, Ned, and raised three daughters. A lover of the arts, she was the vice president of Square Halo, a Christian nonprofit that publishes books, hosts an annual conference, curates a contemporary art gallery, and records a podcast. She is the coeditor, with Carey Bustard and Théa Rosenburg, of Wild Things and Castles in the Sky: A Guide to Choosing the Best Books for Children (2022) and the author of The Goodness of the Lord in the Land of the Living: Selected Poems (2023) and the posthumously published Tiny Thoughts That I’ve Been Thinking: Selected Writings of Leslie Anne Bustard (2024) and Strong Allies: Creating, Cultivating, Restoring (2026). She died of cancer at age fifty-five.
Ours is the long day’s journey of the Saturday. Between suffering, aloneness, unutterable waste on the one hand and the dream of liberation, of rebirth on the other.
—George Steiner, Real Presences
LOOK: Kesunyian by F. Sigit Santoso
F. Sigit Santoso (Indonesian, 1964–), Kesunyian (Silence), 1998. Oil on canvas, 50 × 40 cm.
In this contemplative painting by the Javanese artist F. Sigit Santoso, a cloaked woman stands in profile near a stone ledge, holding her hands over her chest (a gesture of self-comfort? of nervous anticipation?) and staring down at an egg. Eggs typically represent resurrection and new life, since latent underneath that shell, if the egg is fertile, is a chick or other creature waiting to be born. It seems this woman is waiting for the egg to hatch. Maybe she doubts it ever will.
In the background, a body of water cuts through a rocky landscape. The moon is visible in the darkness, but so is a rising dawn on the horizon. A bird wings its way through the sky, a symbol of transformation and freedom. Cast like a bright shadow, its shape is repeated in silhouette near the egg; it reminds me of the bird paintings of the Belgian surrealist René Magritte.
The Estonian composer Arvo Pärt [previously], a devout Eastern Orthodox Christian, is one of the three greatest exponents of the contemporary Western classical movement known as “holy minimalism” (the other two are John Tavener and Henryk Górecki), characterized by an unadorned aesthetic and religious or mystical leitmotifs. Pärt uses the term tintinnabuli (from the Latin tintinnabulum, “little monastic bell”) to describe his meditative, two-voice compositional style.
Written in D minor, “Silentium” (Silence) is the second movement of Pärt’s Tabula Rasa, a double concerto for two solo violins, prepared piano, and chamber orchestra. Whereas the first movement, “Ludus” (Play), is full of energy and momentum, “Silentium,” writes Paula Marvelly, “is intentionally slower-paced with the delicate melody evolving gradually, carrying us through towards the dénouement. And yet as it approaches its tonic end, it progressively becomes more prolonged and gentle, until the final note is left unplayed.” The piece “resolves” on four written bars of silence.
In their recording of “Silentium” released last year (featured above), the Boston-based chamber orchestra A Far Cry plays the piece at nearly half the speed of the best-known version, released by ECM Records in 1984. The group notes that the piece is known for its healing properties for the dying and is often used in palliative care facilities, with one patient famously calling it “angel music.” In the Plough article “Harmonizing Silence,” composer Joel Clarkson writes of how Pärt’s music “speaks in an especially potent way to those who have been thrust into the dreaded silence of human suffering. In response to such silences – spaces that can feel so vacant of hope and meaning – Pärt’s hushed music doesn’t seek to fill the void or distract from it, but rather to gently hallow it, transfiguring a location of pain into a space of encounter with the love of the God who, as Psalm 34:18 says, is ‘close to the brokenhearted.’”
Kazuo Shiraga (Japanese, 1924–2008), Untitled, 1964. Oil on canvas, 51 1/2 × 76 3/8 in. (130.8 × 194 cm). Museum of Modern Art, New York. Photo: Victoria Emily Jones. [object record]
LISTEN: “Glory Be to Jesus” (original title: “Viva! viva! Gesù”) | Words: Anon., Italian, 18th century; trans. Edward Caswall, 1857 | Music by Friedrich Filitz, 1847 | Performed by Wes Crawford on Hymns for This World and the Next, 2024
Glory be to Jesus, who, in bitter pains, poured for me the lifeblood from his sacred veins.
Grace and life eternal in that blood I find; blest be his compassion, infinitely kind.
Blest through endless ages be the precious stream which from endless torments did the world redeem.
Oft as earth exulting wafts its praise on high, angel hosts rejoicing make their glad reply.
Lift we, then, our voices, swell the mighty flood, louder still and louder praise the precious blood!
Kazuo Shiraga, Untitled (detail), 1964. Photo: Victoria Emily Jones.
Andrea Mantegna (Italian, ca. 1431–1506), The Crucifixion, 1457–59. Tempera on panel, 75 × 96 cm. Musée du Louvre, Paris. [object record]
There’s much to look at in this painting. I want to focus on Jesus’s grieving mother under the cross to our left.
In Renaissance art of the Crucifixion, Mother Mary is often shown swooning, supported by John or by one of her female companions. Here she’s with a group of four women—the other Marys—two of whom wrap an arm around her to bolster her up when her legs give out. Her son has just died, and she can’t bear to look.
This work was painted by Andrea Mantegna between 1457 and 1459 as the central element of the predella (base) of the high altarpiece at San Zeno in Verona, Italy, a monumental work of art. In 1797, French Napoleonic forces plundered the altarpiece and brought it to Paris; the country returned the three main panels to Verona in 1815 when Napoleon lost power, but they kept the three predella panels, which are on display in museums: The Crucifixion at the Louvre, and The Agony in the Garden and The Resurrection at the Musée des Beaux-Arts in Tours.
LISTEN: “Swete Sone” | Words: Anon., 14th century (before 1372) | Music by Katharine Blake, 1998 | Performed by Mediæval Bæbes on Worldes Blysse, 1998
This song is in Middle English. If you’re reading along with the lyrics, you’ll want to know that the letter thorn, þ, says th; and u makes a w or v sound. I’ve bracketed the two words that the Mediæval Bæbes leave out.
Suete sone, reu on me, & brest out of þi bondis; For [nou] me þinket þat i se, þoru boþen þin hondes, Nailes dreuen in-to þe tre, so reufuliche þu honges. Nu is betre þat i fle & lete alle þese londis.
Suete sone, þi faire face droppet al on blode, & þi bodi dounward is bounden to þe rode; Hou may þi modris herte þolen so suete fode, Þat blissed was of alle born & best of alle gode!
Suete sone, reu on me & bring me out of þis liue, For me þinket þat i se þi detȝ, it neyhit suiþe; Þi feet ben nailed to þe tre—nou may i no more þriue, For [al] þis werld with-outen þe ne sal me maken bliþe.
Sweet son, have pity on me, and break out of your bonds; For I think I see through both your hands Nails have been driven into the tree, so painfully you hang there. It would be better if I fled now and abandoned all these lands.
Sweet son, your beautiful face is dripping with blood, And your body beneath is bound to the cross; How will your mother’s heart endure [the suffering of] such a sweet child, Who was born most blessed of all and was the most goodly of all!
Sweet son, have pity on me and deliver me from this life, For I think I see your death approaches quickly; Your feet have been nailed to the tree—now I may never prosper, For without you, all this world can never make me happy.
These three monorhyming quatrains are from John of Grimestone’s commonplace book, where he jotted down material for sermons; it’s unknown whether they’re original to him or compiled from some other source. (For other lyrics I’ve featured from this notebook, see “Undo Thy Door, My Spouse Dear” and “Love Me Brought.”)
In the poem, written in Mother Mary’s voice, Mary reveals a premonition she’s had of her son being nailed on a tree to die. (At least that’s how I read it, mainly because of the “I think I sees.”) She agonizes over this nightmare and asks Jesus that if it be true, to deliver her from this life, as she won’t be able to endure the sorrow of losing him.
Verses like these really humanize Mary, a woman who, faithful though she was to God’s unfolding plan, nevertheless felt the intense parental pangs that inevitably accompany witnessing one’s child being brutalized and killed.
The poem has been set to medieval-style music by Katharine Blake, the founder of Mediæval Bæbes, a classical chart–topping British music ensemble celebrating its thirtieth anniversary this year.
The song opens with an unaccompanied solo voice singing in free time. In the second half of the first stanza, additional voices enter, as well as a strummed instrument. Then with “& þi bodi dounward is bounden to þe rode,” the tempo quickens; a 2/4 meter takes shape and regularizes, with percussion keeping the beat; and the volume amplifies with twelve women now singing. With the final stanza, there’s once again a softening as the song returns to a single vocalist and the instrumentation drops out. This movement from weary pain, Mary barely able to speak it aloud, to foot-stomping anger, which her friends join in solidarity, and back to solitary desolation captures different shades of grief.
For a wholly a cappella solo rendition, see this performance by Ariana Ellis:
They will mock him and spit upon him and flog him and kill him . . .
—Mark 10:34
LOOK: Sacred Head II: The Mocking by Bruce Herman
Bruce Herman (American, 1953–), Sacred Head II: The Mocking, from the Florence Portfolio, 1994. Intaglio, edition 48/50, sheet 21 1/2 × 30 1/8 in., image 17 3/4 × 23 5/8 in. Collection of Victoria Emily Jones.
The Florence Portfolio is a suite of twenty intaglio prints based on the biblical theme of sacrifice, made by six artists from Christians in the Visual Arts (CIVA) who lived and worked together for a month in Florence, Italy. I purchased two limited-edition portfolio prints—this one, and Wayne Forte’s Deposition—from the CIVA store shortly before the organization closed its operations in 2023.
A tightly cropped image of Christ’s blindfolded face, Bruce Herman’s Sacred Head II: The Mocking conveys disorientation. Hands slapping, shoving, pounding. Spittle on the cheek, in the ear. A nest of thorns piercing the scalp. Taunting epithets and derisive laughter. A cracking scourge. This is only a fraction of the violence and humiliation Christ suffered in the hours before his death.
Pilate took Jesus and flogged him Soldiers, they twisted a crown of thorns And put it on his head And arrayed him in a purple robe
Hail, King of the Jews! Hail, King of the Jews!
And they struck him with their hands And when they had mocked him They stripped him of the purple robe And put on his own clothes And they led him away To crucify him
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Art & Theology 