So the body's gone, but who and how?
Mary says she's seen Him, but what if she's wrong?
In a locked room, who says they'll stop at killing Him?
Safe and secure in a hiding hole, wanting to believe, but what if we're wrong?
Questions and doubts flooding and fighting against the hopes that keep on rising,
And sinking like a Galillean fishing boat.
Then . . . without a noise . . . without a door opening,
Right there in the midst of us is. . . .
Jesus.
I know He's dead, but suddenly He isn't anymore,
But the holes in His hands and Feet,
The pierced side, hole gaping as if mocking death,
All conspire to tell me that this is the same man,
The one I saw die, and yet . .
He lives!
And then the doubts are stilled,
The fears are gone,
The words, the miracles, the promises,
They are true.
"Shalom," says He, as if He's just been up the road shopping for wood.
And then He blows on me, well sort of breathes at us all really,
And this feeling of peace, of being 'able' of everything being well,
It flows over me like a warm bath,
But it tingles too.
And He sort of tells us what to do.
Passes on the baton, for it's our job now!
And still, I'm not scared,
Well, not much!
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