The women mourned
at the base of the cross,
attending the wounds.
The nails removed, the earth prepared,
they sang the body home.
The formless forgave the form.
The men roared
and hit the wild sands,
laying the concrete down,
rolling the stones away and
clearing the tombs.
The blood boiled. The path was forged.
They come together, now and then,
when Spirit makes it so
—the woman and man,
the body and blood—
to birth again the Christ
to glorify the infinite.
Forgive me, Almighty.
I know not what I do.
My words are weak and impotent
and hardly start
to grasp
the mystery.
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