Bright, morning sun, all lies still.
‘Twas yesterday He trod that hill.
My heart – it stopped – while on He strode
Along that blood-stained stony road.
This ache I feel, it mocks my joy.
His Mother’s eyes see Him.
Amid the dregs of humanity,
He died to save souls just like me.
My lips won’t sing another song,
While in the earth He lies.
Within that tomb He lies so cold.
This chill I feel – my soul grows cold.
His Mother’s tears yet run.
The drone of time, it bores clear through,
While Hell is harrowed, receiving its due.
My eyes have failed, my faith is dry.
His race has just begun.
Without Him now I strive to feel
A happiness, at once, so real.
His Mother’s heart loves me.
The ambiguity of my poem, let me be clear, is intentional. My faith in Christ is strong. But I do not buy into much of the facile expressions and explorations of our Catholic faith that litter the Internet. Like the Apostle Thomas, I have my doubts. But, like the Apostle, I also press on with the help of the same Christ who remains entombed in the tomb today, but will rise on the 3rd day, as He so triumphantly predicted. May your Easter be all the richer because you chose to immerse yourself into the silence and wonder of Holy Saturday, a day that often gets short shrift in our rush toward the Open Tomb.
The Road To Wonder 