Easter Sunday (4)

Christ the true sun is risen

  from the dark last night

The mystic harvest of the Lord's own field

  Now wandering tribes of bees joyously sport

Between the flowers

   Seeking their nectars sweet
The honeyed winds with

   bird songs are bedewed

Nocturnal melody of nightingales abounds

   In church, the people chorus

out their Sion song

   Their hundred folded alleluia sounds 

Tado*, our father, may  heavenly Easter joy

    Gather you to the threshold of light.

Sedulius Scottus 820 AD.
Born Siadhal Mac Feredach,  an  Irish cleric he was also a fine poet 


Graphic: Sculpture, The Risen Christ, El Greco


*this Easter Sunday poem was written for Tado, Archbishop of Milan