By Sarah Law
The mysteries say little – less than little –
about those strangest days,
when Jesus is no longer in the tomb –
the linen cloths, discarded –
but is not recognized by his disciples – nor even by
the woman who wept and washed his feet –
He is not here – He has arisen – has his body
bloomed with golden life, a miraculous loaf
which – like the bread he multiplied
for the five thousand – is here
and here, with every break and tear
making his presence manifold?
He is complete, scarred with the wounds
of the crucible; the baking sun, the old
grill of the grave;
the lifting up –
damp cloth dropped back –
into the light.
Is this why the vision of the faithful
is so fitful, even now?
Or are the sheer taut limits
of stunned minds,
unable to find the words,
make cogent sense of the impossible:
we are so hungry,
still rolling our stones,
squinting in the shimmer of the dawn.
 (the mysteries of the rosary, which comprise various events in the life of Christ and his mother Mary)