Fruit of the Vine: A Resurrection Triptych
“Christ has been raised from the dead, the firstfruits of those who have fallen asleep”
I
As vineyards burgeon in the weary sun
The Son, grief-burdened on Jerusalem’s hill,
Treads toward His ripeness, firstfruits of rebirth;
As crimson grapes are roughly crushed and spill,
Flowing their wine-dark seas to thirsting earth,
And, pierced and trampled, rush and foam and run–
So blood gouts out in waves we cannot sound:
Libation spattered on the dusty ground.
II
Now sealed and sleeping in the quiet soil
With flesh and blood like resting bread and wine
That ferment and grow ripe without decay–
As leaven’s grace and nature’s fruits combine
In glory while in darkness laid away,
So waits the Son, adorned with myrrh and oil
And plumbs that deep where mercy rises slow:
A promise blooming in the ground below.
III
Then raised in effervescent joy, the Son
Erupts exultant, bright as bubbling foam,
Unstoppered from the three-days’ somber dead:
Wine of that feast where all may find their home;
The Host, yet His own wedding’s banquet-bread;
Who bleeds such draughts that death’s thirst comes undone,
And we find our own ripeness in His face:
Ground of our faith, and firstfruits of our grace.