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?
