by Jane Blanchard
The Tomb
The body of the crucified
Has met its final doom.
Those stricken by the way he died
Are overwhelmed with gloom.
They hate to leave the one they love
Alone behind the stone.
They can but mourn the absence of
The man known as their own.
They wait upon the sun to set
But fear it may not rise.
They do not understand as yet
The wonderful surprise.