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Holy Saturday – a poem by Fr Mark

Holy Saturday. 

He sleeps, but does not rest. 
As we lay his linen-
clad body on the cold hewn step.

He labours, in ways unknown
deeply beneath our feet.
He spares not time for greetings.

Neither with Elisha or 
assembled scores of saints.
Past King David he swift moves.

Nor Moses nor Hannah
hold him as he journeys.
Noah cannot call him to cease.

Deeper, further he goes.
A day of scalded feet 
is his reward as he nears the road’s end. 

Finally, there, Adam;
buckled by weight of time, 
meets his son, his beginning. 

Their greeting is a kiss,
unlike that from Judas;
centuries, millennia, 

an eternity of 
regret is here undone.
He returns to us, having returned us to God.

Courtesy of Fr Mark Broadway (Author)