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
she ever could have cared.

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? But hope was cruel.

That second night passed slower still;
the sleepless minutes stretched and grew.
At last, before the sun she rose
and ran the only way she knew.
She had to get to him.

She had tended him so often –
now he needed her once more.
She would help; yes, one last time.
She wouldn’t leave him, she was sure
she wouldn’t let him down.

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 suddenly was 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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