Poem: on Resurrection

I wrote this about a year ago, in the middle of a rainstorm, as I was corresponding with a friend about Christ, Love, our individual calls in Life. Arch Benham had given me a rock at Easter - a rock that looks just like an egg. I love it. I still have it in my little shrine of precious things. That perfect stone has me often contemplating Christ's tomb.

What would have happened had that rock not rolled out of the way?

Thank God for the gravity - or the miracle - or the mystery at work, eh?

The poem is a work in progress. In the spirit of Easter, here ya go!

(Some of ya's have seen it before. I say, "enjoy again!")

Love,

Melissa

..........................................

The Hope of Galgatha

Melissa Borgmann

and on the third day,

the stone rolled away.

but can you see that body?

before.

taken down from the cross.

cut, broken, bloody, born into death.

this galgatha.

place of skull.

of death.

and to speak of no promise.

of endings without hope.

that is to stay at the skull.

body torn down and left to the sky, elements, maggots consuming...

skin that blisters, cracks, rages against itself,

festering and boiling over to

raw wounded bones...

that will eventually dissipate

the vultures clinging and carrying away in their claws...

but the flesh of supposed savior was carried away.

tombs for the simple.

lots cast for clothing.

meager as he was.

poor bone and bread boy

-man-

king.

laid out for burial.

can you hear the cloth in the temple ripping?

the clouds overcasting and the stillness of sorrow.

we can't breathe its so hot and dry and desert-like.

and in this. there.

the rock rolls.

is rolled.

we return to mystery.

to an emptiness that fills us with questions.

why?

where?

really?

who?

what?

how?

and it rains.

then.

then it pours.

covers caked earth.

and we drink.

the merriment, festivities of miracles.

only we can imagine.

have to imagine or hope,

if we are to continue breathing.

we are Him.

broken.

redeemed.

festering wounds wanting salvation.

the balm exists i do believe.

in story.

in shared bodies.

in the poetry that is our work.

love.