We fought for one more sputter of the old life. Even though a breeze passing over your sieve of skin could send you screaming, you muscled up your diaphragm to whisk more air into the fire.
I held my own terrors to my chest: failures and brush-offs, cancers and crashes, all the anxieties I had grown to love heaving and cracking like your ribcage until we both gave out.
Then there was the mess of prying us loose: wailing women and splintered lumber, flesh stubbornly sticking to the nails. But what swift hands, that Joseph of Arimathea, what purposeful footsteps crunching the ground!
He wrapped us in linen and spices. Only the hapless world could think of packing fifty pounds of aloe around a dead man’s wounds. But we drank it in like deserts until finally even the lizards scurried home.
I lay in the cave and wanted to touch you, but my hands were no longer mine. They closed in on themselves like daylilies. The stone rumbled over the window of light, and then our difficult rising began.
Hardly a day passes without someone declaring the death of the book. Recently Lisa Miller of Newsweek viewed an electronic edition of the Bible that was replete with linked maps, a commentary and dictionary, and 700 paintings depicting biblical scenes. Astonished, she sputtered, “This is the beginning of the end of the Word.”Theologically, the future of the Word as the Bible remains assured. That is because the God met in Israel and Jesus Christ acts in history, and the church (as well as the synagogue) can give no remotely adequate account of its faith and practice without resort to the memory of a story that's been preserved via the spoken and written word.
Having lived in the town of Jonathan Edwards and his grandfather Solomon Stoddard for some 20 years, I’ve come to feel a kinship to the 17th- and 18th-century Puritan divines—as if they were relatives who somehow got left off my family tree.
The Young Victoria, a chronicle of Queen Victoria’s early days on the English throne, avoids all the historical-epic pitfalls. It’s a trim, robust film whose period-piece trappings—sumptuous production and costume design—never threaten to overwhelm the human interaction or muddy the dramatic arc.
Thousand Foot Krutch shows admirable ambition on Welcome to the Masquerade, deftly juggling metal, pop, rap and post-grunge. The trio mostly succeeds in making it all appealing, and the album’s sound is ultimately more inventive than derivative—this is not just another mainstream-aping Christian rock band.
The diaries of World War I poet Siegfried Sassoon have been digitized and made available to the public by the University of Cambridge. Sassoon, a British soldier, was quickly disillusioned by the war and became an outspoken war critic. His diaries feature poetry, prose, and drawings and include his 1917 antiwar “Soldier’s Declaration,” which got him committed to a hospital for the duration of the war. He described the first day of the Battle of Somme as a “sunlit picture of hell” (BBC, July 31).