How often have I been like Mary going to dead tombs?
Performing rituals before a God who never desired inscriptions in stone.
Anointing the head that holds the creation of the cosmos.
Anointing eyes that saw Satan fall like lightning.
“My ways are not your ways,” he taught her. “My thoughts are not your thoughts.”
Still, she tried to understand, clinging to the tradition of elders.
Clinging to spices in her hand.
First, the veil had been torn in the temple and now the stone had been rolled back too.
She wept.
She couldn’t meet her savior, offering him spices with trembling hands.
“Why are you crying?”
“Why are you crying?”
“Who is it you are looking for?”
She would bring back her Lord to anoint his scarred body.
She would wrap him in a cloth and roll the stone over his grave.
It’s what they had told her to do.
“Mary.”
Mary. The one who saw the risen Lord before Peter.
Mary. No longer the one with bitter spices.
Forever the one with words from the Teacher to preach to men.