On the first day of the week, at early dawn, while it was still dark,
the women came to the tomb, trailing the scent of spices in hand.
They found the stone moved back. A tomb now hollow.
Two figures in blinding white asked, ‘Why do you seek the living among the dead?’
Mary stood bereft outside the tomb, as an almost familiar voice asked,
“Mary. Our Mary. Why are you crying?”
She had thought it was the groundsman—until he said her name.
Later, on the road to Emmaus, he walked with two old friends,
and their hearts burned within them, though fear tugged at their spirits.
And they did not recognise him—not until the bread was broken.
He appeared behind locked doors. He presented his wounds to incredulity.
He ate fish. He breathed peace.
He rebuilt the hearts of friends who had turned away.
And no, they did not understand. But they sensed something had changed.
Love had not died. Love had only been revealed, revealed to have never left.
This is the mystery of Easter Sunday that we gather around today.
A mystery not to solve, but to sit with and to hold.
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