The Three Coldest Days, Until…

Jyoti Sahi (Indian, 1944–), Resurrection, 2007. Oil on canvas, 178 × 122 cm.

An Easter Poem by Alexis Ragan

originally published in thewayback2ourselves.com Revival Journal

"He is not here; for He is risen, as He said!" — Matthew 28:6

I’d like not to imagine

the three coldest days

this earth ever steeped in.

The silence on the skull.

The lashes of our Lord.

The weight of His grave.

Or that perpetual cloak of darkness

that spread a sheet of grieving tears

over a divided land now frozen in time.

What can be seen now

that the light of the world has

been blown out by the extinguishing

blizzard of criminals?

Desperate disciples feel it’s best to

stay hidden in the frost of exile now.

Soul life shifted direction in the cry

of His final dying moment though:

The silence that struck at the sixth hour

from Christ’s closing breath marked the

moment sin would ever hold the last word again.

Then,

the rock-splitting shake.

the re-emerging tombs.

the tear in the temple.

Did they know, those who knew Him,

the way grace would guarantee a healing?

compose a clean narrative because of this bleeding?

Or could they not defrost from His paralyzing

groans still echoing in the speechless distance?

To ask in honor of his body to be buried,

Jesus was laid to rest in a fresh garden bed,

his women waiting and weeping outside

of its snowed-in entrance.

The three coldest days on earth, until

the estranged stone.

the absent tomb.

the bodiless robes.

Look, He breathes! 

The unconsumed flame rises.

The chill disappears.

A new covenant beams.