Rembrandt Van Rijn-The Risen Christ Appearing to Mary Magdalene, Franz Joseph Haydn Cello Concerto in C

Rembrandt Van Rijn said, "Painting is the grandchild of nature.  It is related to God."  Do you think this is true?  Why or why not?  Paintings certainly reflect what we think of God and His world....

Today's painting is The Risen Christ Appearing to Mary Magdalene.

Notice his use of light and dark and the wonderful depth of the city in the background.  With a flat canvas Rembrandt manages to produce a convincing illusion of depth.  The hat that Jesus is wearing in this painting doesn't fit with what we are used to seeing in paintings of Jesus, but artists often paint the fashion of their own time into their historical paintings.  Why do you think Rembrandt might have put a shovel into Jesus' hands?  I was wondering if it was because Mary mistook him for the gardener.  What do you think?  

We continue this week with the second and third part of the Cello Concerto in C by Franz Joseph Haydn that we started last week:  Haydn Concerto in C for Cello Part 2  and Haydn Cello Concerto in C Part 3.



This week's poetry by William Blake:

NIGHT
by: William Blake (1757-1827)

HE sun descending in the west,

The evening star does shine;

The birds are silent in their nest.

And I must seek for mine.

The moon, like a flower

In heaven's high bower,

With silent delight

Sits and smiles on the night.

 

Farewell, green fields and happy grove,

Where flocks have took delight:

Where lambs have nibbled, silent move

The feet of angels bright;

Unseen they pour blessing

And joy without ceasing

On each bud and blossom,

On each sleeping bosom.

 

They look in every thoughtless nest

Where birds are cover'd warm;

They visit caves of every beast,

to keep them all from harm:

If they see any weeping

That should have been sleeping,

They pour sleep on their head,

And sit down by their bed.

 

When wolves and tigers howl for prey,

They pitying stand and weep,

Seeking to drive their thirst away

And keep them from the sheep.

But, if they rush dreadful,

The angels, most heedful,

Receive each mild spirit,

New worlds to inherit.

 

And there the lion's ruddy eyes

Shall flow with tears of gold:

And pitying the tender cries,

And walking round the fold:

Saying, 'Wrath by His meekness,

And, by His health, sickness,

Are driven away

From our immortal day.

 

'And now beside thee, bleating lamb,

I can lie down and sleep,

Or think on Him who bore thy name,

Graze after thee, and weep.

For, wash'd in life's river,

My bright mane for ever

Shall shine like the gold

As I guard o'er the fold.'