A Path Through . . .

( Katy Olsen, 15 - Drawing of Mary Magdalene's shock, hope at discovering Jesus' empty tomb - found here ) The tomb, the tomb, that Was her core and care, her one sore. The light had hardly scarleted the dark Or the first bird sung when Mary came in sight With eager feet. Grief, like last night’s frost, Whitened her face and tightened all her tears. It was there, then, there at the blinding turn Of the bare future that she met her past. She only heard his Angel tell her how The holding stone broke open and gave birth To her dear Lord, and how his shadow ran To meet him like a dog. And as the sun Burns through the simmering muslins of the mist, Slowly his darkened voice, that seemed like doubt, Morninged into noon; the summering bees Mounted and boiled over in the bell-flowers. ‘Come out of your jail, Mary,’ he said, ‘the doors are open And joy has its ear cocked for your coming. Earth now is no place to mope in. So throw away Your doubt, cast every clout of care, Hang all your...