The Resurrection
I was the one who waited in the garden Doubting the morning and the early light. I watched the mist lift off its own soft burden, Permitting not believing my own sight. If there were sudden noises I dismissed Them as trick of sound, a sleight of hand. Not by a natural joy could I be blessed Or trust a thing I could not understand. Maybe I was a shadow thrown by one Who, weeping, came to lift away the stone, Or was I but the path on which the sun, Too heavy for itself, was loosed and thrown? I heard the voices and the recognition And love like kisses heard behind thin walls. Were they my tears which fell, a real contrition Or simply April with its waterfalls? It was by negatives I learnt my place. The Garden went on growing and I sensed A sudden breeze that blew across my face. Despair returned but now it danced, it danced. Elizabeth Jennings CBE, 1926-2001
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May 2021
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