Three Days of Easter

Sunday

At last. Something we can do. Mary and I gather the women and leave at first light, heads covered, eyes down lest any early morning risers should recognise us and cause a stir. We hurry through the streets, hushed and dimly lit, a far cry from the glaring sun and screaming mobs of two days ago. Can two days have passed already? We hug our precious cargo, and I wonder if I can face the task ahead. Will I be able to touch his lifeless body, give him the anointing he deserves after such a hasty burial? We leave the streets and head for the tomb as the sun rises, and it occurs to me we hadn’t thought through the most basic of problems. How will we even get inside? We left the men behind.

Tears of frustration

start to fall

as we traverse

those final steps

and face the task ahead

The stone

the barrier

the weight between us

has been rolled back

the entrance a stark

and gaping hole

the rising sun blinds

as this figure in white

says he’s risen, not here

go seek him elsewhere

we stare at the cloths

in the place where he lay

leave the tomb in a daze

recall that he said

it had to be this way

who could have known

this is what he meant

A voice calls.

Mary, he says, and I turn

How do you know….?

Mary, he says

It’s me

Then we run. Stumbling over rocks, our oils forgotten, we turn and run. A mad hysterical race along the tracks, back to the city the way we came. With barely a glance at each other we race through the streets, hair flying, ignoring the startled onlookers. Our legs speed us on, our feet burn and our rasping breath comes in choking sobs as we burst through the door.

What’s happened? they say

What’s wrong?

We stand, wild eyed

as we try to catch our breath

He’s back, we say

Alive

and they look at us

as if we’ve gone mad

our precious message

falling on deaf ears

Why don’t they believe us? Is it really that hard to trust what we say? We’re not deluded, we know what we saw. We know what we heard. Even Peter doubts, racing out the door to go see for himself.

The women were right

I’ve seen for myself

but no sign of him

for where do we look?

He’ll come when he’s ready

if this truly is real

so for now,

behind closed doors

we wait.

No knock on the door

or turn of the key

but as evening draws in

he's there in the room.

Stunned silence, then joy

at having him near

for he’s here, 

alive, just like he said

words recalled that went

over our heads.

He’s here, alive

what does it mean?

How do we share

what we have seen?

Show us the way, tell us how

for my head is spinning.

What happens now?