The Tomb (Lent Poems 34)

Strange, on approaching, the details we notice:
How the stone itself, pushed to the side,
Makes less of an impression than the hole
And the light shining into the tomb;
How, breathless from running, pausing on entry,
I see first the grave-clothes, so neatly arranged,
The head-cloth and linen strangely untangled
(Whoever would pause for such care and precision
When plundering grave-sites, the guards soon to wake
And not prone to mercy?). That moment – the doorway,
The neat-folded fabric, the body – not there –
The pause to remember words half-remembered,
Floating like will-o-wisps, my half-sleeping mind
Not quite comprehending, but somehow believing,
He knows what He’s doing. Then Peter’s breath pulsing
As he powers on through (always his way),
And Mary behind us, silently crying, and
Two men like lightning sitting outside.

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