FRIDAY
With its teeth, iron tears and plugs
Wrists that held; healed.
It stills the soles painted with
our dust.
Thorns prick a brow lit with our sweat.
And his heart (his heart)
Will soon expel a gasp of crimson and living water.
(We have done this.)
After he screams,
An inky, unthinkable
Silence
As life itself dies.
It is finished
Has begun.
SATURDAY
Black fear,
Aggrieved horror—
Lock the door.
When all the eggs in my basket
Break open
Poured out
What then?
Just Thursday,
He washed my feet.
Now rigid, cold,
Swaddled in linen and stone.
All I thought he was
He cannot be.
And I am left in this locked room,
My own hollow tomb.
SUNDAY
I.
Here he is again
In the cool of a garden—
New, still-warm keys in hand.
What was it like for his eyelids
Flickering open in the black,
Dank rock mixing its unyielding odor
With myrrh?
He sucks in the breath he created,
Conqueror over every death.
Linen falls, is folded,
No longer needed as his feet
sense stone.
Soldiers laugh and snore outside
Oblivious to the second
That changes everything.
II.
She blinks in plum-colored half-light
And memory again descends on her chest.
This morning, it is so hard
To rise.
Wash, comb, gather, sigh.
She meets the other two.
They walk, burdened by more than
The spices puffing and tossing at
Their thighs.
Few words for a morning like this
As the sun lifts
over planet earth
And women’s tears.
The stone, they wonder.
How.
But they pull themselves forward,
Scent rising.
This is the place,
Too beautiful for bones.
Sandals stop.
But it’s
Open.
New terror.
Two men, unearthly white.
As he said.
Hungry for more thoughts for Easter Weekend? You might like
14 Great Paradoxes of Jesus: Death [printable INFOGRAPHIC]
Isaiah 53, The Message (Or, how this Friday became Good)
