Breathlessly hysterical they burst into the room,
excitedly described their recent visit to the tomb—
“Oh, Peter, He’s alive! He’s really risen from the dead!”
But their fantastic story made me cynical instead.
Outlandish speculations couldn’t lift me very high—
I’d seen my Jesus crucified and watched Him slowly die.
But something in their faces made me long for their belief,
and hope began to burn away my lonely, heavy grief.
Muttering my disbelief, I fumbled with my shoes,
but grumbles couldn’t cover my excitement at the news.
Brushing past the others there, I left the room and ran
to examine for myself this empty grave and angel-man.
Eerie silence shimmered at the entrance to the cave.
Slowly I approached and bent to look into the grave.
No angel-man appeared.
No flash of lightning ripped the sky.
No earthquake cracked the walls.
I heard no hallelujah cry.
But then I saw the graveclothes as I stepped into the cell—
the linen sheet they’d wrapped Him in was just an empty shell!
I gasped and wondered, hoped, that the impossible was true,
and stumbled in confusion back home through the fading dew.
That evening we sat lifelessly behind the bolted door,
slowly growing colder as the shadows stalked the floor,
when tenderly a sure, familiar voice broke through our gloom:
We turned and gasped to see our Teacher with us in the room.
He smiled at our amazement, and his eyes were laughing bright.
He showed the jagged nail-scars, and we trembled at the sight.
But suddenly my grief and guilt were more than I could stand;
I turned away to fight the tears—
but He held out His hand.
The hand that healed the leper now reached out to make me whole;
the scars that marked His body matched the wounds upon my soul.
Death’s power once had bound Him, and bound us in misery,
but in His resurrection Jesus resurrected me.
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