SONG FOR A SUNDAY MORNING
A reflection on Mary in the garden on Easter morning.

There they lie -
Our dreams in shreds,

battered,

scattered,

heart-shattered -

All the things we thought that mattered

have slipped

in the stripped form,

hand-clawed,

thorn-pierced,

blood-matted form

nailed

to a cross.

It's not just a man who's died,

but our hopes,

lives,

yearnings,

mission,

heart-pourings

of a vision that might have been.

"Dream dreams," they sneered

in snide scorning

as they hammered home the last three taunts

of a devil's smile.

They might as well

have slammed them into my heart.

We've been the extra mile

and back again

and nowhere left to start.

Is the morning too still

to hear a word twice whispered?

Is there dawning possible

from hearts all bitter-twisted?

Who dares disturb my grief

or bring a word?

But there it is again.

No raised voice this, nor distant,

but quiet, insistent,

slowly stripping dawn's resistance

to the joy it brings.

I try to mourn:

"Tell me where they've laid him!"

Warm eyes have none of it.

No graven gaze engulfs my face,

but love -

reborn,

restored,

regiven

from a riven heart

that took the path of love.

Faith flickers,

full-fanned

bursts out aflame -

And Man! -

Suddenly the enormity of it all strikes you .........

That death

was just a birth

the world will not contain.

© John McNeil 1998

All rights reserved
This poem may be performed free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged.
In exchange for free performance, the author would appreciate being notified of when and for what purpose the work is performed.
He may be contacted at: jandhmcneil@paradise.net.nz
Or at: 36B Stourbridge St, Christchurch 2, New Zealand.