Second Sunday of Easter: Firstborn
The dust –
(You remember
the dust, how it gathered
your bones and your flesh,
baked deep in its womb)
The dust cannot hold him;
he shapes it
and makes it
anew: it soaks up
his blood, bursts out fresh
in new blossoms
and fields bright in green…
The tree –
(You remember
two trees in the garden,
one full of life,
the other of death)
The tree where he hung,
cursed and dead, hanging,
the maker of trees unmade,
(so it seemed),
That tree then was not
the end to the story,
his body the gate
to that first tree of life…
The grave –
(You all know
the grave that is looming
before us, behind us,
within us; it waits…)
The grave where he lay
could not hope to keep him,
the master of dust,
the sculptor of trees,
the conqueror of graves,
Watch as he leaves,
pushes aside the stone with his fists,
breaks earth and remakes it,
the author of life,
firstborn from the dead…
The Consolations of Writing 