Hint of predawn light glazed ground-level door’s
slender entrance, so they sensed she would come
soon, though long ago they’d agreed: no more
predicting humans’ timing—choice great sum
of their blesséd freedoms. Patience remains
a sign of faith, Michael had told them both,
and they’d an eternity to retain
his words. Then a sudden gasp, breathless oath
at tomb’s door. They saw the widow crying,
shaking, fallen basket, aloes and myrrh
littering her feet. He had been lying
where they both now sat. They rose to greet her,
their heavenly eyes casting off her fear.
Why weep? Gabriel smiled. He is not here.
Roger Armbrust
March 23, 2008
