How could he have chosen such a terrible death?
He could have spoken out; did he think of me, his mother?
Of course other mothers lose sons—in sickness, in war,
some even in suicide. But none like this,
watching his body torn and split by nails,
hearing his scream against God.
How could he have done this to me?
Why didn’t he answer Pilate?
I was angrier than when he’d stayed behind in the temple.
Why did he have to torment me?
I had gone to the tomb with Mary of Magdala;
poor girl, she was bitter with grief.
We packed up the oils, wrapping them carefully
in folds of our shawls. We were risking our lives
by going at all.
The family at Bethany tried to come with us. We told them,
‘No! Keep quiet at home.’
But when we got to the garden, the tomb was broken open…
And empty! Our last tender service to him had been smashed.
Of course we blamed him for this ultimate cruelty.
There was even a stranger there!
Would the mockery never end?
The stranger spoke; there was something odd about his voice.
He was wearing a white tunic, and his eyes
brimmed with light; he spoke with an unidentifiable accent.
I shouted to him, ‘Where have you laid my son?’
And he called back, ‘There was no need to lay him anywhere.’
‘What on earth are you saying?’
‘I’m telling you, he’s risen. He is alive!’
‘I wish I could believe you.’
‘He’s gone to Jerusalem. You must go and find him.’
Was this young man mad? Was I mad?
‘Be one of the first to greet him.’
And then the young man—or could he have been an angel?—vanished.
Who was he, disturbing us so?
And yet his news was startling; should we believe him?
Mary and I picked up the oils.
Something was changing; my earth was reeling—my mind was opening—the whole world
was changing. Light was streaming
across our path. Were we in Heaven?
We looked at each other, sharing this sense of transcendence—
this sudden joy, this changed awareness of a new life.
We began to cry… And then, breaking through our tears
came laughter, and laughing we clung to each other.
He Opened Not His Mouth
Sylvia Read