A rooster welcomes the sun’s ascent.
Peter, face buried in his cloak, cries all the louder.
“Hush, we say, lest they hear and come for us as well.”
“What’s that you say, Mary? You’re going where?
Yes. Go. Perform for Him what we dare not do for dread of evil men.
Wash His wounds. Anoint His body. Wrap Him in funeral clothes.”
Who’s that pounding on the door? “Mary?
What is this crazy talk? What mean, you Angels? Empty?”
Women cannot be trusted to get things straight.
“The Lord spoke to you? To tell Peter what?”
We must go and see with our own eyes, this of which she speaks,
Although I do not expect to understand.
It is as she said: Vacant tomb. Funeral clothes set aside.
Risen? What does this mean? I do not understand.
What did He tell her we should do? Go to Galilee?
He’ll meet us at home? Home. Then let us be off.
I feel the darkness lifting as I race to tell the others,
“Gather your things. We’re going home.”
Now, where is your gloating, grim host of Hell?
Your minions weep and scream in torment,
While we shout for joy, “He lives.”
For we have spoken with our Risen King,
O, Happy Day, finally, we understand neither
Gates of Hell nor dankest grave could hold Him.
The Lord is risen. The Lord is risen, indeed.
Copyright © Reflections from Dorothy’s Ridge 2016. All rights reserved