by Pavel Chichikov
Afterward the weeping Magdalene
Sees the stone that shuttered His remains,
The lifeless eye of death, awake and open –
Woman, tell the men He has been stolen
Tell His followers the limestone rock
Has rolled away, His sepulcher’s unlocked –
Then two rise up to find what had been sealed,
To see the cold impossible revealed
They run, their hope before them, as if they
Had been the ones entombed, had seen bright day
In keenest radiance cut through the stone
To wake them from a black oblivion
They find the clothes of burial, not Him,
The garments of the grave so orderly
He might have risen to His morning work –
A fisherman, or carpenter, or clerk
The two depart; the woman in her fright
Looks within – two sentinels of light
Guard the bed of death at head and feet –
“Woman, can you tell us why you weep?”
The woman turns to see the gardener,
Or so she thinks, and begs Him for an answer:
“Where is my Master carried?” and He says:
“Mary! It is I who was, who is”
Mary having lost Him has been found,
Knows Him by His face and by His wounds,
His gentleness, His friendship and His love,
As He will find her soul beyond the grave
