The evening of the first day Of newness, was it bright? After the stone-heavy coldness of death Had flooded with cavernous light? Were they, who’d slept in the garden, Willing the morning on? Wide-eyed for dawn, recounting the day That the statutes of death had gone. I’ve lost a loved one and slept Fitful, waking to grieve Where my waking moments were piercings afresh Theirs would have been a reprieve. Did they lie in the room all together? Did their nerves flick, electric and tense? Did they bicker and proffer alternative truths? Shaping Truth to their truths and their sense. Did Mary smile, just a little Renewed in her newness, the dew From the garden, a still-precious memory of dawn, The freedom He promised was true. Did she stare at her jar for anointing? Unopened and useless as death Overcome by the thought of the wide-open tomb Wide-open and useless as death. And what of your heart, my Peter Housed it hope like a small bird in flight? Or strength, like the air-splitting wings of an eagle Or shame like the crowing at night? Did pain make you pace out the hours Till your Love had a place in your breath? Did you know, in those night-filling hours That He loved as He broke open death.
Image: The Empty Tomb, 1889, Mikhail Nesterov