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the soft hush
before morning

the subdued chorus
that was the first to sing

the alleluias
lying in wait

the change in the air
the colour orange
teetering on the horizon

and the shadow of a man
steeling across the half light
leaving a dewy cloud of breath
swirling behind him

this new morning of the kingdom
has broken



Easter Day

                             Mark 11:7 -- 15:26


First Words

The first words
of the day
echo in every century

the answer to the first question
that never has to be asked

the original statement of faith

before any creed
or church
or follower
said anything

the first words
the only words

“He is not here”



Here is our great Alleluia
our great amen
to what happens today
and every day
in your love O God

Our great shout of life
of resurrection
of renewal and new life
for ridding us of the borders

we’ve always thought were there
but are no longer
for crossing the line of endings
with love’s new beginning
for writing over our creeds
“think bigger”

Here is our great alleluia
And we will share it
with all the love we have

So be it


Marks Ending

It is my worst fear
and I am afraid.

What if this is real?
What if all he said about himself
is true?

I’ve been to the tomb.
I saw the stone.
I touched the grave clothes.
I breathed the air,
and he is not there.

If there was a body
at least I could grieve;
if the stone was still there
then I could understand,

but now I can’t do either;

the tomb is empty
and there is nothing to see,
and I am afraid
because that only leaves me with one question
what if it is all true?

What do I do with that?


But believe what?

He wasn’t actually dead?
That all we hoped in
but didn’t quite trust would turn out,
now will?

What does that mean for everything else he spoke of?

If this is true
is what he said about samaritans and prodigals,
also true
or about broken bread and turning the other cheek,
or about lifting the poor and loving enemies?

I don’t know how to handle this.
I know what to do with a body that has no life
but this possibility
this hope…

I am frightened.




There are only stories.
It is all we have
to explore the emotions
to seek the truth
to express the hope we have
that today’s news
this morning’s empty tomb
might be true

Stories are all we’ve got
when explanation cannot help

So we continue to tell stories
but dare we tell this story
not with some kind of conclusion
where resurrection becomes a full stop,
a grand ending
a dramatic finish,
but stone rolling
simply becomes a page turn,
a new story
where the light is different
and the words are alive again




We should have known its between words
we recognise him,
the lacunas of grace
sitting between questions and stories.

The sun has set
and we are arriving at Emmaus,

and he pauses,
as we pause
in that awkward silence
of new friends
not yet familiar enough to know what to do next.
Another lacuna.
One where we feel there is something more to this man
his words not yet complete.

And so we ask him in
for supper,
and he joins us,

and we pause at the table
the simple supper between us,
and we hesitate,
he is the one to pray,

and in this lacuna,
he knows it too,
and now invites himself,

and the silences
blend together,
a levy of lacunas

that teeters into an amber explosion
of sunlight gold and russet breadcrumbs
cascading from the broken loaf,

holy and silent.
Crumbs are rolling in the air
and bouncing and skidding across the table
in slow-motion
drawing the silence into itself,

and we are left
in another,

for he is gone

but he is also here
in the space between us
in the breath we breathe,
the hope we live by,
the love we share,

only now
we have eyes
to see him.



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