A beautiful poem by Malcolm Guit, shown to us by Bella Harding, where we can thank the carers/key workers who are doing God's work here on earth, caring for those who need it the most... we thank them when we clap on a Thursday, we thank them in our prayers. Thank you....

And where is Jesus, this strange Easter day?
Not lost in our locked churches,
anymore than he was sealed in that dark sepulchre.
The locks are loosed; the stone is rolled away,
and he is up and risen, long before,
alive, at large, and making his strong way
into the world he gave his life to save,
no need to seek him in his empty grave.

He might have been a wafer in the hands
of priests this day, or music from the lips
of red-robed choristers, instead he slips
away from church, shakes off our linen bands
to don his apron with a nurse: he grips
and lifts a stretcher, soothes with gentle hands
the frail flesh of the dying, gives them hope,
breathes with the breathless, lends them strength to cope.

On Thursday we applauded, for he came
and served us in a thousand names and faces,
mopping our sickroom floors and catching traces
of that virus which was death to him:
Good Friday happened in a thousand places
where Jesus held the helpless, died with them
that they might share his Easter in their need,
now they are risen with him, risen indeed.

Malcolm Guit Apart, yet together. #ChurchAtHome

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