I can't see his face
through the tears.
It's blood stained, broken
I know.
I don't recognize my Lord and my friend.
I have no more tears.
I am spent, numb.
There is nothing left
of his life, or mine
except this ragged cloth
with which he wiped his face.
The blood has hardened,
the dirt dried
but it has become my most precious treasure.
I hold it
and breathe in the memory
of the good times,
the healings,
and outrageous outpourings
of miraculous grace
that flowed out of him
those three full years.
Full of so much promise,
excitement, power, wonder,
compassion, love.
Love.
That is what I'm left with.
His love.
It made me complete,
healed, restored.
No longer judged and dirty,
a social leper, a society outcast.
He gave me dignity, purpose.
He restored my name to me,
who I really am.
I will go to the tomb today
to anoint his body.
My last act of love
given in return.
I will ask the gardener to help me
roll away the stone.
There he is.
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