Easter Hymn, by A E Housman

If in that Syrian garden, ages slain,
You sleep, and know not you are dead in vain,
Nor even in dreams behold how dark and bright
Ascends in smoke and fire by day and night
The hate you died to quench and could but fan,
Sleep well and see no morning, son of man.

But if, the grave rent and the stone rolled by,
At the right hand of majesty on high
You sit, and sitting so remember yet
Your tears, you agony and bloody sweat,
Your cross and passion and the life you gave,
Bow hither out of heaven and see and save. 

The Collected Poems of A E Housman, ISBN 1-85326-411-3

Sermon on the wall mounting, by Matt Harvey

A few inches above the skirting-board
it sits. A socket. Ready for a plug
to be inserted. Which will have a cord
that stretches to the heater on the rug.
Look. Three accommodating oblong holes.
The top one longer than the other two.
One in. One out. One earth. Their humble goal's
to let the electricity come through.
Three holes. A small domestic Trinity.
Three aspects of the power that is the Source.
Which may be likened to Divinity.
Which in those Star Wars films was called The Force.

In this material world how very odd
to find a socket leads us back to God. 

From The Hole in the Sum of My Parts, ISBN 0-9550910-0-4