Malcolm Guite’s poem spoke to me:

And where is Jesus, this strange Easter day?
Not lost in our locked churches anymore
Than he was sealed in that dark sepulchre.
And he is up and risen, long before,
The locks are loosed; the stone was rolled away,
Alive, at large, and making his strong way
Into the world he gave his life to save,
No need to seek him in his empty grave.

He might have been a wafer in the hands
Of priests this day, or music from the lips
Of red robed choristers, instead he slips
Away from Church, shakes off our linen bands
To don his apron with a nurse he grips
And lifts a stretcher, soothes with gentle hands
The frail flesh of the dying, gives them hope,
Breathes with the breathless, lends them strength to cope.

On Thursday we applauded, for he came
And served us in a thousand names and faces
Mopping our sickroom floors and catching traces
Of that corona which was death to him:
Good Friday happened in a thousand places
Where Jesus held the helpless, died with them
That they might share his Easter in their need,
Now they are risen with him, risen indeed.

You can hear Malcolm read his poem if you go to the blog page on his web site:
Spotted in the Tablet this weekend

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