Gerard Manley Hopkins greets Lenten observers arriving at Easter communion. They bring hollowed, fasting faces and flesh secretly etched by whips — rough-scored chequers he sees pieced into crosses for Jesus. The East wind’s thin, pursuing cold has nipped them; their vigils have dwindled to low flames. Every physical detail aches with cost, yet reverence warms the tone.
Then the poem breathes Easter into those same weary bodies: God will overfill their measured sacrifices with oil of gladness, swapping scratchy sackcloth for robes threaded with myrrh and gold. Bones scarce-sheathed from bending will be steadied, feeble knees made firm. The speaker doesn’t chide — he anoints with words, wrapping them in a promise. The mood shifts from sharp, ascetic ache to a balmy stillness, like a cold room suddenly warm with the scent of myrrh and released breath.