Easter Sunday

Sunday, March 27, 2005

The birds sang a cheerful chorus in the wet gray of Easter morning. It was almost as if they knew. Collette could only picture that one morning, nearly two thousand years before. In the coolness of the early morning, the pale rim of the sun over the hills and and the rose of the clouds on the Mount of Olives. Perhaps the three crosses still hung, heavy still, from the rain and the storm of that terrible Friday. The path in the garden might have been white from the settled dust and the jeweled blossoms of Israel would be covering the hills and His tomb. And then to see that stone sitting to the side of the opening, and the light of angels. What a day it was.