Christ is risen?

He is risen indeed,
and the children, certain of this
recurrent event, rise at first
opportunity of dawn,

to greet a table laid for the event,
the celebration of miniature chocolate tombs, left
hollow to declare, “He is not here! He has risen, just
like He said He would.” But we

sleep-weary grown-ups rub eyes, ask,
“Really?” in our pragmatic hearts, too busy
hoping for a day without squabbles, wishing
against all reality, that this year the chocolate

might not cause so early, so emphatic a slump
in resurrection joy. And I, willing my fingers to declare
the truth my heart questions, type to my family
group chat the words, “Christ is risen”, rehearsing

the annual entry into truth, even when it seems
distant from the daily reminders of bills, school
uniforms (holidays nearly finished) and schedules
that announce the day’s scarcity of resources.

“Christ is risen” my thumbs declare. But a child
bumps me and the willed exclamation mark becomes
a question. Has He risen? Will He rise again, this year
as in the years before?

Believe it, hands. Believe it, heart.
What was true two millennia’s midnight ago is true
at this year’s first break
of doubting dawn.