From the Vicar
| April / May 2001 |
From the Vicar |
|
| Rev Mark Haworth The Vicarage Tel 01638 741409 | |
Dear Friends, May I begin by offering an open invitation to the School Hall on Monday 23rd April at 730 pm, when the Parish Easter Vestry & Annual Parochial Church, Meeting takes place. At this, the .churchwardens are elected, and all those on the civil electoral register are allowed to vote, whereas only those on the church electoral role are allowed to vote on all other business……… though anyone can ask questions! Should you wish to be on the role, please have a word with myself, Eric Day or Jen Holmwood. My very first visit to Cambridge, and Kings College Chapel, was on Good Friday 1978, when we came to house hunt ahead of my move to Thetford Chase. It was my first exposure to Allegri's Miserere' with its soaring treble-line, sung by the choir, remotely, from the ante-chapel .Cambridge Voices rendition is no less evocative, in St Cyriac's, and I hope many will come to the Good Friday evening concert at 7.00 pm). As I have done for many years, I kept the order of service, and it is interesting to note that on the back cover was written a poem by Edwin Muir entitled `The Killing'. Imagine my surprise to discover when I came here that Muir (1887-1959) had lived opposite the parish church for much of his later life, and that he and his wife Willa are buried in our village cemetery, their final resting place marked by a distinctive slate tombstone. I reproduce for you here that poem, and in so doing, wish you all a holy and happy Easter. Your parish priest, Mark That was the day they killed the Son of God On a squat hill-top by, Jerusalem. Zion was bare, her children from their maze Sucked by the demon curiosity. Clean through the gates. The very halt and blind Had somehow got themselves up to the hill.
After the ceremonial preparation, The scourging, nailing, nailing against the wood, Erection of the main-trees with their burden, While from the hill rose on orchestral :wailing, They were there at last, high up in the soft spring day. We watched the writhings, heard the moanings, saw The three heads turning on their separate axles Like broken wheels left spinning. Round his head Was loosely bound a crown of platted thorn That hurt at random, stinging temple and brow As the rain swung into its envious circle In front the wreath was gathered in a knot That as he gazed looked like the last stump left Of a death-wounded deer's great antlers. Some Who came to stare grew silent as they looked Indignant or sorry. But the hardened old And the hard hearted young, although at odds From the first morning; cursed him with one curse, Having prayed for a Rabbi or an armed Messiah And found the Son of God. What use to them Was a God or a Son of God? Of what avail For purposes such as theirs? Beside the cross-foot, Alone, four women stood and did not move All day. The sun revolved, the shadow wheeled, The evening fell. His hand lay on his breast, But in his breast they watched his heart move on By itself alone, accomplishing its journey Their taunts grew louder, sharpened by the knowledge
Far from their rage. Yes all grew stale at last, Spite, curiosity, envy, hate itself: They waited only for death and death was slow And came so quietly they scarce could mark it. They were angry then with death anal death's deceit.
I was a stranger, could not read these people Or this outlandish deity. Did a God Indeed in dying cross my life that day By chance, he on his road and I on mine? Elwin Muir |
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