He lay stone still, wrapped in a sheet,
In pitch behind a boulder door.
If eyes could see, His hands and feet
And side bled drops on rocky floor.
His heart stopped cold and breathing ceased.
From heart and soul His spirit fled.
His human life was gone, released.
He did not sleep: body stone dead.
Salome, Mary of Magdalene
After sunrise, came to the tomb.
They stared into this empty scene . . .
There was no body in the gloom.
They told His friends, who shook their heads.
“The massive stone was rolled away?
The wrappings folded by His bed?
An angel said, ‘He rose today?’”
Behind locked doors, they hid in fear
Who moved the stone? A women’s tale?
How could He rise—so nailed and speared?
Then suddenly, alive but pale,
His face had lines from wrapping bands;
His punctures ringed where blood had dried.
“Peace be to you!” He showed his hands,
And feet, and side—then smiled wide.
“I am alive, will come again
But there is much for you to teach.
Baptize the world’s women and men,
For no one is beyond My reach.”
He left the earth. His spirit reigns
From highest peaks to dungeon cells.
My rocky heart is strewn with chains—
Lord cast them out. In You I’ll dwell.