The Tomb
A
collaborative poem by Rosemary Bailey and Eva Whittle
The
Aramathean, rich man, secret
believer,
he had a tomb carved out
of
rock where no one had ever
lain.
But when the Rabbi
died
and the day turned to night-
darkness
and thunder, and death walked
among
the dead wondering how some
he
had held in his grip for so long
had
opened their graves, Joseph
went
to Pilate to ask for the body
and
he carried that torn
and
broken shell into his own
burial
cave. There were enough
spices
to mourn a king and here
the
Son of Man finally
has
a place to lay his head
the
tomb. Rome
sealed
it with a massive
boulder
and guarded it night and day.
Sunday
just before dawn
(the
guards had been shaken into frightful
sleep)
the angel broke the seal
of
the place that death had visited
but death had been banished
and
the still fragrant tomb
was
once again only empty.
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