The wounded surgeon plies the steel
That questions the distempered part;
Beneath the bleeding hands we feel
The sharp compassion of the healer’s art
Resolving the enigma of the fever chart.
Our only health is the disease
If we obey the dying nurse
Whose constant care is not to please
But to remind us of our, and Adam’s curse,
And that, to be restored, our sickness must grow worse.
The whole earth is our hospital
Endowed by the ruined millionaire,
Wherein, if we do well, we shall
Die of the absolute paternal care
That will not leave us, but prevents us everywhere.
The chill ascends from feet to knees,
The fever sings in mental wires.
If to be warmed, then I must freeze
And quake in frigid purgatorial fires
Of which the flame is roses, and the smoke is briars.
The dripping blood our only drink,
The bloody flesh our only food:
In spite of which we like to think
That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood-
Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.
T.S. Eliot, “East Coker, pt. IV,” Four Quartets (1940).
It has seemed to me that the afternoon of Jesus’ crucifixion would have stretched out forever in the minds of those who were present, and in another sense the events of that afternoon stretch to our day as well. We consider the viewpoints of a priest, a thief, Mary, John, Simon, and others and the seven last words they heard from Jesus.
For anyone in Jacksonville tomorrow, a service titled “The Endless Afternoon: Words and Witnesses at the Cross,” at 7:00p at Westside Chapel, 4541 Shirley Avenue, Jacksonville, FL 32210, 904 388-5117.