The triptych poem, titled “Three Voices of Holy Saturday: A Triptych of Sonnets”, comprises three Shakespearean sonnets, each giving voice to a distinct figure—Mary Magdalene, Peter, and the tomb—reflecting on the liminal stillness of Holy Saturday. Mary Magdalene’s sonnet expresses personal grief, portraying her as weighed by Christ’s absence, lingering in a mournful garden, yet sensing a faint, unnamed tremor of hope. Peter’s sonnet grapples with guilt over his denials, the tomb mirroring his shame, though a stirring wind hints at unearned grace. The tomb’s sonnet speaks as a mythic guardian, cradling a transcendent mystery and proclaiming its role as the hinge between death and victory, assuring the dawn’s coming. Together, the sonnets weave sorrow, shame, and silent promise, capturing the day’s tension between despair and the unseen hope of resurrection.

I. Mary Magdalene
My heart, a shroud, bears absence as a weight,
This Holy Saturday, where dawn is gray.
The garden mourns, its olive branches sate
With grief that chokes the light of breaking day.
My hands, still spiced with myrrh, are empty now,
No task can ease the wound his death has torn.
The stone stands fast, unmoved by tearful vow,
Its silence louder than his cry forlorn.
Yet in this pause, a tremor stirs the air,
A pulse too faint for hope, too strong for dread.
I linger here, though sorrow bids despair,
And watch where love and loss have made their bed.
O Christ, my soul awaits what none can see,
A dawn that might redeem this agony.

II. Peter
The rooster’s crow still burns within my soul,
Three denials carved where faith once stood tall.
This day of hush indicts my heart’s parole,
Its silence brands me traitor in its thrall.
The tomb reflects my shame, a mirror cold,
Where vows I swore lie shattered at his feet.
My courage failed, my love too weak to hold,
And now this stillness sings of my defeat.
But why does wind now whisper through the gloom?
Why does my heart, though broken, faintly strive?
Some promise lingers, hidden in this tomb,
As if his word could bid my guilt revive.
I wait, unworthy, in this shadowed hour,
For grace to mend the strength I failed to shower.

III. The Tomb
I am the pause, the seal of stone and night,
Where death and hope in silent contest lie.
No mortal eye can pierce my guarded sight,
No voice can break the hush that I supply.
Yet I am more than darkness, more than end,
A cradle for the light no star can claim.
Within my depths, a mystery transcends,
A breath that kindles life beyond the flame.
The world without may weep, may doubt, may flee,
But I, the hinge, know what the dawn will bring.
My silence holds the name of victory,
A rising none can fathom till it springs.
O you who wait, your vigil is not vain—
I guard the dawn that shatters death’s domain.