Where is the shining of the morn?
Where is the joy that should be born?
So long have these dry bones been numb,
even the songs that should adorn
the Easter dawn are lying dumb.
Where are the angels who should come
to raise my hope on Easter day?
My heart a stone to roll away,
it hides the hollow where I'm cleft,
as empty as the place you lay.
On glory's morning bare, bereft,
and when I seek you there, you've left.
Where is the love as strong as death
while all creation holds its breath
and hope lies lifeless in the grave?
Sinking beneath a shibboleth
the spotted, blemished flock to save,
leading them through the parted wave.
Then may you through the wound in me
walk dryshod—Moses through the sea,
or Joshua through Jordan's bed—
to let my pinioned limbs go free,
to bring my breath back whence it fled,
and raise me living from the dead!
Pierre Jean Van der Ouderaa – De heilige vrouwen keren terug van Christus’ graf – 1598 – Royal Museum of Fine Arts Antwerp – Royal Museum of Fine Arts Antwerp, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=134036734
Kate Bluett 