Resurrection Song
I’ve written about Jenny before. She’s my favorite contemporary poet, writing from a deep place of pain as she negotiates the aftermath of a virus that caused severe M.E. (Myalgic Encephalomyelitis: inflammation of the brain and spinal cord). She is unable to sit up because of the strain on her cardiovascular system that has, for twenty years, left her bedridden and in almost constant pain. I’ve written about her poems before. You can read about her latest, Winter People, here.
She sent me her latest poem, Resurrection Song, because some of our recent conversations at The God Journey inspired her. I, too, have written about the song of the Lamb that discerning hearts can understand amid the world’s turmoil. This is from my latest book, It’s Time: Letters to the Bride of Christ at the End of the Age:
The winds of his Spirit are shifting. As I walk the hills where I live, rising amidst the rustling leaves and the quiet of a starlit night or the warm glow of a burgeoning dawn, I hear the refrain of the song the Lamb—Jesus calling to his beloved. You can hear it too in those moments of stillness just before you fall asleep, or sense it in the drawing of your heart to something greater when you’ve put aside your media.
It is a soothing melody with tender words and a restful rhythm. He’s not angry at those who got lost in the world or their religious performance; he’s simply inviting them to return to him. Some hearing that melody don’t even know it’s coming from Jesus. Their hearts are being drawn into the sweetness of his presence, even though they don’t yet know what to call him. They will eventually learn his name, but they are already following him as they yield to the growing revelation inside them.
Jenny’s poem speaks into this same reality and as she writes from the depth of her soul, she captures this song as well. She gave me permission to share it here. You can read it below or listen to Jenny share her poem with illustrations by clicking here for her YouTube video.
Resurrection Song
by Jenny Rowbory
© Jenny Rowbory 2025
Oh the state of things right now.
Blackness oozes out of the pores of the earth, the air, the sea,
as we wring out our world,
the dark tendrils gathering and slithering, spreading fast.
Death is all around.
In more usual times, we struggle to comprehend even our grief for the one;
in current times however, as the corpses of both children and adults pile up,
the bodies of the once-loved turn into statistics,
too much for the human brain, the human heart, to process.
Whether a result of pandemic, genocide or war,
the eyes of the dead stare at us unblinking, judging, condemning.
Even if we have written to politicians and signed petitions,
even if we have protested, marched, and futilely voted,
what is there left that the ordinary citizen can do in our impotence?
The darkness billows across the ground in a charge towards us,
the black tendrils snaking up our legs, coiling around our bodies,
forming its tip into a dark needle that jabs into our hearts,
anaesthetising us into numbness
without our awareness or permission.
We hunker down,
burrowing to where it is safe,
narrowing our focus to self-protection,
to me and mine,
doing what is best for ourselves.
We shrink so small in every definition
but what else can we do,
helpless as we are.
When the bullies seem to be winning,
when lies are painted as truth
to pit one against the Other,
when everyone is confused, scared and angry,
when the growing violence, greed and corruption is overwhelming,
when hidden injustices and blatant injustices both brim over,
we shrink further
as our hearts harden
for self-protection and self-prospering.
But even as the darkness and its tendrils clutch at our hearts,
we cry out with longing
for a different way
and we open our throats to sing.
Individual voices rise up,
unheard at first,
alone in our little patch
in which we have barricaded ourselves.
Transparent ripples of sound from these lone voices
shoot up high into the sky,
rippling ribbons of musical refrain
winding, weaving, curving, swerving,
to join together with other tributary melodies
as they meet more singing voices,
a diaphanous flow
pouring in from hills and valleys,
deserts and tropics, villages and cities,
becoming streams of song in the sky,
rivers carving scars in the air.
It sings of
a love stronger than our own self-interest,
a disruptive love that becomes
subversive in a world that plans on us being selfish,
a world that plans on us thinking selfishly and acting selfishly.
It sings of
the deep whisper and instinct
that nudges us towards
tenderness, empathy, community and fairness,
the song that tugs our hearts to soften
to the point where we can make decisions against our own self-interest
to the point where we want to put others’ needs before our own,
to treat others as we would want to be treated.
This torrent of song
from the raging rivers in the sky,
starts to glow with light, pulsing out
as we yearn,
as we wait in the darkness.
It is our secret hope.
It is our resurrection song.
________________________
© Jenny Rowbory 2025
Jenny uses her poetry to help raise money for the treatment she needs, which is only available in the United States and is incredibly expensive. If you have some extra resources to help with her medical and travel expenses, please go to her GoFundMe page. She still needs almost half a million dollars. Every little bit helps.