Risen

by Austin Jepson

April 16, 2017

Stone rolled from the tomb.

Where have you taken Him?

Mary pleaded and wept.

The Gardner unknown softly replied,

He is not here. He is risen.

Show me His body

That I may prepare it

With linen and spices.

He is not here. He is risen.

Please sir, have mercy.

He was my king,

And my Lord.

He is not here. He is risen.

Why won’t you tell me?

Is it not enough that you hung Him

On a cross made of wood

With nails in His hands and feet,

His side pierced and bleeding,

A crown of thorns on His head?

Is it not enough that you unjustly accused,

You spat and you mocked,

And freed Barabbas, a sinner, instead?

He is not here.  He is risen.

Do you even know that He suffered so much

That He bled from every pore,

So that you and I can be clean?

Do you not feel the loss and the sorrow

That even caused the earth to mourn

These last three days?

Please, sir, take me to Him.

Let me bathe His feet in my tears

And anoint His head with sacred oil.

Mary, Mary.

Mary, can’t you see?

It is I.

My Lord and my God.

Can it be?

Look at the prints

In my hands and my feet.

Feel of my love.

But touch me not,

Not yet.

I am with you always.

Keep my commandments

And always remember

To come, follow me.

And we will embrace

At the right hand of God

For the rest of eternity.