Running all the way,
bent double in breathless pain
we peer and see
the gaping grave
open to the rising sun.
Slowly we enter, our eyes sun-blind,
when we see the empty bench,
the bloody cloth cast within.
I try to imagine
how light must have pierced the cloth,
the sudden shudder
of His broken body,
His sharp breath exploding
like a swimmer breaking the surface,
and I notice John’s eyes
outshining the sun,
and my own face
lighting even death's
darkest place!
Steven Federle
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/peter-s-report/
