The poem vividly captures Christ’s resurrection, centering on the moment within the tomb. A sharp crack pierces the dark, and a roaring golden light floods the grave. The air thickens with iron and honey as Christ—flesh and breath—rises, discarding the shroud. The stone quakes, the earth awed. The triumph, the doctrinal gem of the resurrection, is the fact that He is alive, reigning over all, having shattered death’s hold in that dark space.

A crack split the dark,
not loud, not thunderous,
but sharp—like a twig snapping
under the weight of a deer
startled by spring’s first scent.
The earth felt it,
a shiver running through the stone,
a pulse stirring the grave.

The slab didn’t just shift—it jolted,
trembling as if flung
by a force unseen.
And the light—
no gentle glow—
it roared gold,
flooding the tomb,
blazing through the damp and dust,
a fire that needed no air.

Sparrows outside scattered,
then stilled,
their wings catching echoes
of a sound they couldn’t name.
The air thickened with iron and honey,
sharp with broken rock,
sweet with something waking,
something whole.

In the grave, He stirred—
not a wisp, not a shade—
but flesh and breath,
hands folding the cloths aside,
voice a low wind
rumbling the walls.
The shroud lay crumpled,
a shed husk,
and the stone,
that cold keeper,
shook with awe.

What is a miracle
but this:
Christ rising in the tomb,
death’s hold shattered there,
the body, once cold,
alive in that dark?
The triumph wasn’t beyond,
but in the grave—
in the way He
refused to stay bound,
refused to stay still,
and rose,
and rose,
and rose.

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