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Paul Willis


Poetry

Rosing from the Dead

We are on our way home
from Good Friday service.
It is dark. It is silent.
"Sunday," says Hanna,
"Jesus will be rosing
from the dead."
It must have been like that.
A white blossom, or maybe
a red one, pulsing
from the floor of the tomb, reaching
round the Easter stone
and levering it aside
with pliant thorns.
The soldiers overcome
with the fragrance,
and Mary at sunrise
mistaking the dawndewed
Rose of Sharon
for the untameable Gardener.

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