Sunday, March 23

Mary in the Morning

by Mel George

All the world was white and numb
Soundless, colourless, meaningless now.
A festival danced around the house
But not for her – she wondered how
Any of it had ever seemed real.

Yesterday played across her eyelids
With every blink, she saw again
Her master, healer, Lord and friend
Bleeding, choking, convulsed with pain
And felt her own. Her death in his.

That Sabbath long she fought against
The thoughts and dreams that came
Unbidden every second minute:
Lazarus rose – could not the same
Happen now? Cruel nightmares of hope.

That second night passed slow as the first
The sleepless minutes stretched and grew.
At last, before the sun she rose
And ran to the only place she knew
To him who was her meaning, her home.

She had tended him so often
And now he needed her once more.
She would help; yes, one last time.
She wouldn’t leave him, he could be sure.
Her delay had been against her will.

And now her act of love prevented –
That empty tomb, the final blow.
Stunned and crushed, when all was done
She stayed and wept; nowhere to go.
She spoke with angels and didn’t care.

The gardener was suddenly there.
She cried for him to bring her home.
Please, oh please just tell me where…
And then he spoke one word alone:
‘Mary.’ And the morning came.

Mel George lives and ponders in Oxford. Wishes you a wonderful Easter.

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