In twilight’s hush, the garden lay
Where spices lingered, sharp and sweet,
And Mary Magdalene made her way
With heavy heart and weary feet.

The stone was rolled—a gaping wound
Where once the tomb had sealed the dead.
No body there, no linen bound,
But folded cloths where He had bled.

She ran, her breath in ragged gusts,
Through olive groves and dew-kissed sod,
To Peter and the one He loved,
Crying, “They’ve taken away my Lord!”

They raced as dawn’s first fingers bled
Across the sky in rose and gold;
The younger reached the tomb ahead,
Bent low, saw cloths but not the bold

Form of the Christ. Then Peter came,
Entered the hollow, scent of myrrh
Still clinging faint like whispered name,
Yet empty silence chilled the air.

They left, perplexed, their footsteps slow,
While Mary lingered, tears like rain
That stung her eyes and made them glow
In morning light’s relentless plain.

She stooped once more, peered through the gloom—
Two angels sat where He had lain,
Their garments white as almond bloom,
Voices like silver threads of strain:

“Woman, why weepest thou?” they asked.
“Because they’ve taken my Lord away,”
She sobbed, the words in anguish tasked,
“And know not where they’ve laid His clay.”

Turning, she saw a figure stand
In gardener’s garb, with soil-stained hands,
The air alive with dew and sand,
And faint perfume from distant lands.

“Woman, why weepest thou?” He spoke,
“Who seekest thou?” His tone was kind.
She, blinded by her sorrow’s cloak,
Supposed Him keeper of the vine.

“Sir, if thou hast borne Him hence,
Tell me where thou hast laid Him now—
I’ll take Him up, though body dense
With death’s cold weight upon His brow.”

Then Jesus said, one word like light
That pierced the veil of grief and night:
“Mary.”

Her heart leaped at the sound—
Familiar, warm, and full of might.
“Rabboni!” cried she, turning round,
And reached to clasp Him in delight.

“Nay, touch Me not,” He gently said,
“For I ascend unto My God,
And to your God.” His voice was thread
Of heaven’s gold on earthly sod.

“Go tell My brethren: I ascend
To My Father and your Father too.”
She ran, the garden’s scents now blend
With joy that morning’s breezes blew.

“I have seen the Lord!” her voice rang clear,
Through streets where fear had held its sway;
The risen Christ had conquered fear,
And turned the night to endless day.

The air grew sweet with hope reborn,
The birds sang hymns in cedar boughs,
And every stone and leaf adorned
The triumph of the empty tomb’s vows.

Thus Mary bore the news like flame,
Her eyes alight with sacred fire—
The Lord is risen, praise His name,
And rolled the stone from every soul’s despair.