… But it was not a smooth crucifix,
lilies at its foot
and at its head
a pale light.
It was earth convulsed
in the grip of darkness,
rocks rending in the dark
and in the dark a frenzied crowd,
dark dust
spattered
with redeeming blood,
and out of the dark
a cry…
And it was not a small sepulchre
wreathed with faint flowers.
It was splendour,
mighty angel
sitting
in sharp morning sunlight,
guards as dead
but death defeated,
and from the clear shining of the risen sun
a remembered voice…
– Muriel Lowman
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