Monday, October 14, 2013


She comes at dawn
No clear idea
How to bless
Battered remains
Of her Teacher.
This was to be the day
When death was bested.
He had promised.
They had hardly heard.
The stress of things gone wrong
Very wrong
Had clouded all thinking
All hope.
Mercy had been
Made to appear
Haughty robed ones
Desperate for His blood.
Even the crowd
Had parroted,
“His blood be on us
And on our children”.
Sun is coming up.
Mourning dove
On that branch
Sets the tone.
The stone is rolled away.
Probably more pain
And inside no seeming
Some graves-clothes neatly piled
But where the Teacher’s body?
Outside He waits
Suggestions of a
Dawning smile.
She had always been
So eager for His clarity
His comfort.
Precious Mary.
Now first witness exultant
To the Son Rising.

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