A reflection on Mary in the garden on Easter morning.
There they lie -
Our dreams in shreds,
All the things we thought that mattered
in the stripped form,
to a cross.
It's not just a man who's died,
but our hopes,
of a vision that might have been.
"Dream dreams," they sneered
in snide scorning
as they hammered home the last three taunts
of a devil's smile.
They might as well
have slammed them into my heart.
We've been the extra mile
and back again
and nowhere left to start.
Is the morning too still
to hear a word twice whispered?
Is there dawning possible
from hearts all bitter-twisted?
Who dares disturb my grief
or bring a word?
But there it is again.
No raised voice this, nor distant,
but quiet, insistent,
slowly stripping dawn's resistance
to the joy it brings.
I try to mourn:
"Tell me where they've laid him!"
Warm eyes have none of it.
No graven gaze engulfs my face,
but love -
from a riven heart
that took the path of love.
bursts out aflame -
Suddenly the enormity of it all strikes you .........
was just a birth
the world will not contain.
© John McNeil 1998
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