It is often asked where the risen Christ was when the women, and later the apostles, got to the garden... Mystics and Mothers (who are often the same thing) have always known the answer.
After all, where would any son go first who had put his mother through so much?
The following lines express this hidden and unknown joy of Mary perfectly...
May it be your meditation this Easter morning.
Reunion:
The stone
rolled off,
And no one
saw it.
Her heart
was jubilant
And full of
ecstasy.
She knew
that a sea of joy
Would flow
out of the sea of sorrow;
Although it
would
Recede to
sorrow again
She could
remember
Being born
in the midst of
God the
Father,
And being
created
Before
creation.
Did She
truly watch
Light come
out of darkness?
Did she see
shores
Come into
being?
It seemed
you could play
See-saw on
a wave!!
She never
moved.
Quietly and
closed in a room,
She sat
behind a door
That no one
dared to open,
And looked
upon the streets
Of her
beloved Jerusalem,
Watching
the crowds
Hurrying
hither and yon;
Watching,
and not seeing at all;
For the sea
of sorrow
Was
receding
Into the
desert
Where seas
go;
And she was
playing
See-saw on
a wave
Made by
God.
She knew
the Pieta was Piety.
The sorrow
in her face
Was sorrow
of the past.
Upon it
lingered still
The shadow
of the cross
And Him
upon it;
But when
her hands
Had touched
His face,
Which the
disciples thought was
Dead,
She felt
the warmth
Pulsating
through it.
How could
God die?
He touched
death
For an
instant –
Abolished
it forever,
And it
became
An angel of
surpassing beauty;
For whom
men of faith
Would wait
with bated breath;
Death
hasn’t icy fingers at all
They are
warm –
The fingers
of the angel of love.
The ice,
the cold, the decay
That is for
men of earth to see;
For their
eyes are not conditioned
To the
resplendent state of the
Soul.
She knew
He was not
dead forever;
Not one
bone would decay.
He slept,
quietly, obediently,
In the
tomb;
For He was obedient
Even after
death.
But when
they rolled
The stone
before the tomb
He was free
to roam;
To come, to
go
To be
Where all
those years
He could
not be
Or could
show Himself.
Out of the
tomb
To hell,
To bring
joyous news;
Then, like
a man
Would visit
In a
pilgrimage of love,
The places
that made His heart
Beat faster
As a man.
When She had held His cold-warm
Body
She
trembled
With the
joy of it –
Knowing He
would come
To visit
Her first
The
Magdalene would be the next
To see Him.
So She sat
alone
With the
door closed –
They
thought to grieve
But no! To
wait.
Who was
there to see
Or hear
what passed?
Who was
there to know
The glory
Of music
born in that room?
The Music
of His voice and Hers
Mingling as
voices
Never did
before.
“Tonight is
the night
Of my first
unknown joy.”
“It is just
as well
That men
count them as seven;
For how
else could they count
My joys or
sorrows?
There are
not enough stars
In heaven
To add them
up –
Seven will
do nicely.”
“Come
Share in
one of my unknown joys.”
“He came to
Me
In my
chamber,
My Son!
My Lover!
And
overflowing rapture
Condensed
in utter ecstasy
Filled Me
again.
“It was as
if
I had
conceived anew,
For all my
being
Felt His
coming.
The room
pulsated
With the
beat
Of angels’
wings
But even
the seraph’s eyes
Were
sealed.
Not even
they
Could look
then
Upon the
Mother and the Son
And so they
chanted
Alleluias.
“Did you
know that I,
The first
stigmatic,
Had the
wounds?
It happened
simply,
Perhaps He
was two or three,
Perhaps, I
am not sure.
It is hard
for one who
encompasses
eternity
to think in
time.
One day He
was playing
At My feet,
And
suddenly
Like a little
swallow
He kissed
each foot.
The wounds
began to throb.
“At seven
or eight
He kissed
each palm,
Lingeringly.
And I knew
The feel of
nails.
“He came
once
In early
spring,
On a shiny
sunny day.
His hands
were full of flowers.
He sat on a
small stool
And wove a
crown for Me.
I knew the
weight
Of thorns
Upon my
head.
“In May, in
your land,
Children
repeat His gesture.
It brings
back the memory
Of thorns,
sweet, deep, sharp.
“He was a
suckling at My breast.
One night,
Somehow,
His face fell
From My
nipples;
And His
warm mouth touched my side.
Was it a
kiss?
Was it a
lance?
From that
blest night
The pain
was there
Never to
go.
“So you
must know
My unknown
joy,
The
rendezvous We hels –
My Son and
I –
The night
they thought
They had
sealed His tomb
So tight.
Where do
you think
He went?
He went to
the place
He loves
most in Palestine
–
The room of
His Mother.
“Wonders
will never cease!!
The room
was aflame;
For where
My Son is,
There is My
spouse,
The Crimson
Dove
Who holds
Me tight.
The angels’
wings
Made melody
of strings
As they
chanted their
Alleluias
In a circle
of bliss,
And He sat
at My feet
And I
looked into His eyes –
Above to
below.
“The
Crimson Dove
Brought the
flame of love;
And the
Father was there
Unseen,
jubilant, joyous,
Taking
delight in His Son.
And as He
did,
The Crimson
Dove grew,
And a flame
covered the earth.
Alleluia
Alleluia
Alleluia.
“The stone
was still tight
On the tomb
of My child
Who was
with Me.
“I give you
the Paschal gift.
Put out
your hands
And take it
to your heart
This is the
night of joy!
Alleluia!
I am an
Alleluia
In the
flesh
Tonight.”
(Lines from Catherine
deHueck Doherty's epic poem: "Our Lady's Unknown Mysteries.)
