The women got up early in the morning.
Had they been awake all night?
They were carrying ointment for their dead
son, friend, teacher;
where else could he be but in a tomb?
They hurried on, heavy and full of tears.
How dark the morning was! The wind was chilly.
They made their way between the tombs
lying like huge shadows—so many dead asleep here.
Where was his tomb, the tomb of all their hopes?
They saw it then—huge and pale and doomed.
And then they saw the angel.
The light dazzled their eyes. They cried in terror,
fearing some new and frightful happening.
After the trial, the crucifixion; after that, the earthquake.
So—what next?
The angel spoke:
‘Have you forgotten all his promises
so soon? He said “Destroy this temple and
in three days I will build it up again.”
He isn’t here, my friends—he’s gone ahead to Galilee.’
They turned and ran—no time to thank the angel—
‘Peter!—John!—Andrew!—James!—Come quickly!’
The men were huddled, half asleep:
their hearts were lead.
‘Get up and come with us!
The Lord has risen!’ ‘You must be mad!’
‘We’ve seen an angel, standing by the tomb!’
The men struggled to their feet—yawned, stretched.
This was impossible! ‘See for yourself, then;
come with us and see!’
The sun was up now. Anyone could spot them;
anyone could arrest them…
But Peter tied his sandals quickly, flung on a cloak,
and left the place. He ran to the garden.
There was no angel. But the stone was gone.
He gazed at the empty grave. There was no body,
only some linen pieces on the ground.
‘And I betrayed him—I who had lost all faith,
all trust. What sort of rock am I
that he should build his church on me?’
The women, following, saw him kneel in the tomb;
‘Why are you weeping, Peter? The Lord is risen.’
But Peter wept for his own unbelief. For mine, too—
mine. He wept for all Christ’s Church,
so easily shaken, so often lacking faith.
First Light
Sylvia Read