What was it like on that first day,
that first day of the week, that day
when nothing seemed the same?
When even the sunrise was different?

The glow in the east, as if God took His
brush and painted broad strokes of blues,
purples, and golds. No doubt the chirps
of birds rang sweetly in the meadows.

The sky, much brighter now, than yesterday,
the day the earth shook with earthquake tremors,
when spirits come out of their graves;
the Temple curtain torn in two, as if

God had taken a sword and ripped
it open. Suddenly, the Holy of Holies
was laid bare, and anyone burdened by
sin could enter, could go in and be held

by Christ, redeemed, forgiven, a new start,
again and yet again. Oh! The memories
of his sufferings, the lashings and tears,
now mingling with the holy hush of triumph.

Mary Magdalene must have sensed it, the world
alive as never before. She went there,
looking for Jesus. A voice was heard,
in the still morning air, “Jesus is not here, He is risen.”


© by Michael Escoubas.
Used with the author's permission.