You know who John Updike was. This famous author died on January 27 of this year after a bout with cancer. A friend sent me his Easter poem and it blew me away. I had no idea the guy was a believer, but his words here are far more eloquent than anything I’ve ever thought or said about this greatest of all Christian events. Here it is in its entirety….

SEVEN STANZAS AT EASTER

By John Updike

Make no mistake, if He rose at all

It was as His body;

If the cells’ dissolution did not reverse, the molecules

reknit, the amino acids rekindle,

The Church will fall.

It was not as the flowers,

Each soft Spring recurrent;

It was not as His Spirit in the mouths and fuddled

eyes of the eleven apostles;

It was as His Flesh: ours.

The same hinged thumbs and toes,

The same valved heart;

That — pierced — died, withered, paused, and then

regathered out of enduring Might

New strength to enclose.

Let us not mock God with metaphor,

Analogy, sidestepping transcendence;

Making of the event a parable, a sign painted in the

faded credulity of earlier ages;

Let us walk through the door.

The stone is rolled back, not paper mache,

Not a stone in a story,

But the vast rock of materiality that in the slow

grinding of time will eclipse for each of us

The wide light of day.

And if we have an angel at the tomb,

Make it a real angel,

Weighty with Max Planck’s quanta, vivid with hair,

opaque in the dawn light, robed in real linen

Spun on a definite loom.

Let us not seek to make it less monstrous,

For our own convenience, our own sense of beauty,

Lest, awakened in one unthinkable hour, we are

embarrassed by the miracle

And crushed by remonstrance.

(from “Telephone Poles and Other Poems” by John Updike, 1961. Published by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House.)

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