Passion Week, or Holy Week is the last week before Easter, dedicated to the memories of the last days of the Savior's earthly life, His sufferings, crucifixion, death on the cross, burial. This week is especially honored by the Church. "All the days," says Sinaxar, "surpasses the Holy and Great Fourteenth Exile, but more than the Holy Fourth Saints Holy and Great Week (Passionate), and more this Great Week this Great and Holy Saturday. It is called this week of the Great, not because its days or hours are greater than (others), but because this great and extraordinary miracles and extraordinary deeds of our Savior were accomplished this week ... " Cheboksary, Church

Holy Week with poems by Boris Pasternak and symbolic images of Mikhail Nesterov

Great Saturday. All the most terrible events of this week have already happened, and to great joy we have to wait one day. And he stretches and stretches. Such is the sketch of Boris Pasternak: either the expectation of Easter, or simply the expectation of spring.
On the Holy
Another round of night haze.
It's so early in the world,
That there is no number in the sky for the stars,
And everyone, like the day, is bright,

And if the earth could,
She would have overslept Easter
By reading the Psalter.

Another round of night haze.
Such a wound in the world,
That the area has fallen for eternity
From the intersection to the corner,
And before dawn and heat
Another thousand years.
The land is still naked,
And she has nothing in the night
Rock the bells
And echo the will of the chant.

And on Holy Thursday
Until Holy Saturday
Water drills the shore
And it's whistling.
And the forest is stripped and uncovered,
And on the Passion of Christ,
As a group of worshipers, it is worth
A crowd of pine trunks.

And in the city, on a small
Space, as at the gathering,
Trees look naked
In the church lattice.

And their horror is obscured.
Their anxiety is clear.
The gardens overlook the fences,
The earth is fluctuating:
They bury God.
And they see the light of the royal doors,
And black boards, and candles series,
Crying faces -
And suddenly to meet the procession
Comes out with a shroud,
And two birches at the gates
Must step aside.

And the procession goes round the yard
On the edge of the sidewalk,
And brings from the street into the vestibule
Spring, spring conversation
And the air with a taste of prosphor
And the eternal fuss.
And March throws snow
On the porch of the crowd cripples,
As if there was a Man,
And he carried, and opened the ark,
And he gave everything to the thread.

And the singing lasts until dawn,
And, sobbing in vain,
Get quiet from the inside
On wasteland under the lights
The Psalter or the Apostle.

But at midnight the creature and flesh will cease,
Hearing the spring rumor,
That only just ahead of time,
Death can be overcome
The power of the Resurrection

«Виртуальный Русский музей» в социальных сетях: