The Resurrection of Mary

In the early hours, when the sky

split between night and dawn, she rose,

feet brushing the dust of old paths

that knew her grief,

the weight of her wounds,

and the echoes of a name that the world

would never let rest.

Hands stained by the touch

of a life no one wished to see,

she carried her shame like a shadow,

cast long in the sun’s first light.

Yet in her eyes, a flame—

not of regret,

but of remembrance, of a love

that forgave before she spoke,

that called her by name

when the earth stood still.

He found her not in temples,

but in the margins,

where souls were fractured like broken pottery,

scattered at the feet of the self-righteous.

Her tears, once wept in silence,

now poured like oil at His feet,

a vessel cracked but still pouring,

still worthy.

When the others fled in fear

of a tomb sealed shut by death’s decree,

it was she who lingered,

heart stitched together by hope

that refused to die.

In the garden, her name broke

the silence of eternity.

Not a sinner, not a castaway—

but Mary, as she had always been

and would forever be.

In that moment, the stones turned soft,

and the world understood

that resurrection was not only His,

but also hers—

rising from the ashes of a past

the world could not erase.

She stood,

not redeemed,

but whole.

And I too knew the fractures

of a life split across worlds—

too many places to call home,

not enough roots to feel whole.

But He

saw me in scattered pieces

and gathered them in His hands.

When He called my name,

it was the language of understanding,

where nothing was lost,

where I was bound yet risen,

found and healed in Him.

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