About the woman morning spread its wings,
a gentle dove of rose-golden light,
the fluttering of its wings a patient breeze.
The earth was quiet, secret, holding back
the clatter of a waking world. She wept.
She wept, while gentle clouds swept clean the sky.
She wept, while shining lilies danced delight.
She wept, while two small birds looped through the air.
This woman wept with heavy grief, her heart
As grey as stone. Surrounding her, the day
drew out from sleep, but in her eyes dark night
had claimed the world as its domain. Grey stone
before her formed a tomb, a well, a hole
which two nights since had swallowed up her Lord.
That night, the thought her heart would break with grief,
when, wrapped in hasty cloths they laid his form
upon the hateful, cold, unyielding stone.
That night, the sky had shared her grief, had stormed
majestic woe upon the world. But now,
that fickle sapphire dome welcomed the sun.
She thought her heart would break that night, but now,
where she had thought to find the form of love,
the hollow shell of him who gave them joy,
the corpse behind the sealing stone, was naught,
no man-form cruelly killed upon a cross,
no sign that he had once moved forth in life.
The thieving sneaks who stole his form away
had only let the cloth. How dark had day
become, how cold her heart, how empty lay
the world spread round her grief. A well of tears
sprang from her soul, a never-ending flood
of emptiness, a stream unnourishing.
How hollow was the world, was life, was love!
In death and darkness nothing stood secure,
and all the words and deeds were stolen clay.
“He’s gone! He’s gone! Why have they taken him?
They’ve robbed me of the dream I thought to keep,
the memory of love, when love was killed!
He’s gone, and now there is no dream, no ghost
of hoarded love to keep me on the Way!”
She wept, while morning broke the shell
of aging night. Yet still she was night’s thrall.
“Ah, child, why do you weep?”
_____________________She raised her head,
for youth had long deserted her, her age –
though not advanced – was well matured, her life
before her Lord had crossed her path, a thing
of vast experience. She was surprised.
His feet seemed clad in earth, a rich brown soil
which sang of life, and ornamented too
with dirt the hands which gestured round about.
“Why do you weep? The day has come to life.”
She started up, and thinking him to be
the gardener, perhaps the one who stole
her Lord, her love, she cried, “Oh, please, tell me!”
Where have you taken him? Oh, give him back!”
The man seemed puzzled. “Give him back?”
_______________________________“Oh, sir,
you see this tomb of emptiness, where we
had laid our Lord! Have you removed his corpse?
Oh, give him back, that I may have some form,
some mass, some substance of his love, e’en if
he’s dead!”
_________The stranger stood before her, still
and calm as posture pools in early light.
His quiet spread about her like a cloak
to warm a chilly winter pilgrim’s way.
Her inner night-child tempest stilled its storm
as she regarded him in solemn peace.
His shining eyes began to dance with joy –
a strange surprise to her – and then he said,
“Ah, Mary!” Chiding laughter lit his voice,
the Lord of Life’s delight in his domain.
And at her name the woman’s heart was healed,
and all that she thought lost returned ten-fold,
not stolen or destroyed, and not confined
by any limits she had ever known.
His smile was light and life, and she who helped
to wrap his corpse would never more despair
of having all his gifts of godly love.
NOTE ON THE POEM: this was written several years ago, but I’ve not published it anywhere before. I’ve been meaning to post it the last few years, but kept missing preparing it for the Easter of those years.
