From Good Friday

"Bend thy boughs, O Tree of glory;
Thy relaxing sinews bend;
For awhile the ancient rigour
That thy birth bestowed, suspend:
And the King of heav'nly beauty
On thy bosom gently tend."

(from "Crux Fidelis," Pange Lingua, Palestrine/Sarum Plainsong)

Why do I forget about this stanza every year?  I do not complain, though, because every year I get to discover it afresh and be amazed.  The idea of a tree coming to life, or rather becoming animate, to wrap its arms gently around the body of the Lord, holding it, tending it, is so powerful, so intimate.  I always picture a tree in full foliage, rather than a hewn construction.  It feels protective.  It is such a maternal, caregiving, pieta-like picture.  I free-associate:  it feels ent-ish, only quieter;  it feels like Mary Oliver's trees, who do their jobs, and live their lives, and speak to us, teach us.  As we heard on Palm Sunday, if we don't praise him, the stones will do the job loudly instead.  Why, then, shouldn't a tree be able to cradle the maker and master of the world?

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"Blest tree, whose chosen branches bore
The wealth that did the world restore,
The price of humankind to pay,
And spoil the spoiler of his prey."

(from "Vexilla Regis," Sarum Plainsong, Mode I)

I love that last line.  I love the irony of the spoiler having his own plans spoiled.

and, in the same vein,

"Thus the scheme of our salvation
Was of old in order laid;
That the manifold deceiver's
Art by art might be outweighed
And the lure the foe put forward
Into means of healing made."

(from "Crux Fidelis," Pange Lingua, Palestrine/Sarum Plainsong)

The deceiver outschemed, out-art-ed, out-crafted.  The foe falls into his own lure, just as the psalmist prayed.  The lure, the trap, becomes a source of healing instead.  I have a healthy appreciation for such ironies.