On a cold and wintry eighth of January,
Ninety-eight men entered into the mine;
Only one of these returned to tell the story
Of that disaster that struck Old Number Nine!
Hark ye to the White Bird of Glory!
Hark ye to the White Bird of Grace!
We shall gather at the Mount of Redemption
To meet our dear Lord there face to face!
As we carried out the bodies of our loved ones,
We looked up to God in Heav’n above;
We asked Him why, and He sent a man to tell us:
Hark ye to the White Bird of Love!
And from that tomb came a message of gladness,
Though its author had passed to his reward:
“Hark ye ever to the White Bird in your hearts,
And we shall all stand together ’fore the Lord!”
So, hark ye to the White Bird of Glory!
Yes, hark ye to the White Bird of Grace!
We shall gather at the Mount of Redemption
To meet our dear Lord there face to face!
Seven weeks we gathered by his bedside,
Seven weeks we knelt and prayed to the Divine,
Seven weeks, and from the Seventh Aspect,
God answered our prayers with a Sign!
(Now,) fourteen weeks will have passed since the Rescue,
When we gather out on the Mount that night;
We shall lift our voices then to sing God’s glory,
And await with joy the Coming of the Light!
So, hark ye to the White Bird of Glory!
Oh yes, hark ye to the White Bird of Grace!
We shall gather at the Mount of Redemption
To meet our dear Lord there face to face!
And, finally, Reverend Wesley Edwards of the First Presbyterian Church worries about his sermon for next Sunday. A touchy problem, since he feels the occasion should be utilized, yet does not want to contribute in any way to hysteria. Somehow, Mark 4:11–12 seems appropriate to him as a text, yet it is full of pitfalls. Dare he risk it?
And he said unto them: Unto you is given the mystery of the kingdom of God, but unto them that are without, all things are done in parables: that seeing they may see, and not perceive; and hearing they may hear, and not understand; lest haply they should turn again, and it should be forgiven them.
What a triumph it could be! He and his wife have turned in late, exhausted by the long week and longer day, having suffered through just about everything from baptisms to egghunts, from ecumenical Good Friday services to his own jampacked flower-laden programs, even a wedding and an afternoon children’s party, and so he is not exactly overjoyed that his wife chooses just this moment to find fault with his sermon this morning.
“Of course, it was beautiful, dear. Don’t bite your lip like that. I don’t mean that everyone didn’t enjoy it thoroughly.”
“What was the matter with it?” He tries to sound agreeable and open-minded, but he is very tired. Moreover, undressing in the room where she lay reading idly, he was even considering the marital sacrament this night as an appropriate climax to the joy of Christian renewal (both students of The Golden Bough, they often celebrate primitive festivals in such manner), but he has never been able to succeed — even as a lusting boy — so long as his mind was at work.
“I didn’t say anything was the matter with it, dear. Only, well, it seemed so much like the one you gave last year.”
He laughs. “You want me to rewrite the Resurrection?”
“Oh no, that’s not what I mean.” She smiles. “But, I don’t know, it just seems like you only tell them what they want to hear, and that doesn’t seem …” Her voice trails off ambiguously.
“That may be so, dear,” he says, rolling his back to her. “But if I do, it is because I believe that God’s behavior is visible in their needs. It’s difficult to put it precisely, but for some time now I’ve had the feeling that I am only a passive participant in a larger drama, that by responding to them, I respond to Divine Will, and thus fulfill what is there potentially all the time. I think this is really what ritual is all about. And it seems especially right at Eastertime, which celebrates not a speech or moral judgment, but a mute action. Who am I to stand above and scold?”
“Oh, Wesley!” She laughs, switching off the bedlamp and curling around his back. “You’re not a preacher, dear, you’re a poet!”
He laughs in pleased response. She runs her hands down inside his pajama pants. He is still irritated with her for having turned him on, as it were, but as she scratches and burrows, the channels of his mind click closed, one by one. Visions of candy Easter eggs behind slender trees, gay flowered bonnets and starched skirts, the long green look down the No. 6 fairway toward the red flag that stabs its hole, fill the void as his mind retreats.
“Is he risen?” she asks in his ear then, astonishingly resurrecting this old premarital collegetime joke of theirs.
Click! the last channel. “Indeed,” he whispers, rolling on his back to receive her: “he is risen!”
Part IV: The Mount
Come, gather for the great supper of God, to eat the flesh of kings, the flesh of captains, the flesh of mighty men, the flesh of horses and their riders, and the flesh of all men, both free and slave, both small and great!