The tomb is clear.
Body unwrapped, liberated but still employed.
One last task at hand, with punctured hands and feet. 
Broken body now at its most powerful. 

I look at my own broken body. 
Some wounds seen, others felt and carried deep within. 
The pain he endured reminds me that  
the pain I feel is so I don’t hold on too tightly—
To this world.
To my love of three small bodies that seem perfect now, 
but will also hurt later. 
To parent’s who will leave before I am ready.
To the comforts that I think will save me 
and also know won’t. 

He ascends and looks down to me,
shaking his head as I grip the matter of this world.
I ask what can be so great 
that you would leave what is here and now?
Even while I ask, I yearn to know a body without pain. 
I twist my hands and beg to hold his, 
here on earth. 
To feel the last stand of God with us.

But the tomb is empty now
And has been for years and year and years. 
So I celebrate what I don’t fully understand, 
Still looking for what the earth no longer hosts.
He is risen indeed.