The path shivers beneath His weary tread,
A lone wind stirs the dry, brittle dust.
Stones cry their silence against the horizon,
And the air holds its breath—waiting.
Eyes, veiled by grief, gather like storms,
The crowd a restless sea, tides of pity,
Their murmur a drone, an elegy spoken
Before time bends to His aching voice.
He stands—terribly still—at the tomb\'s mouth,
The stone\'s cold weight fills the trembling earth.
Here, God feels the fissures of our ruin,
Shouldering shadows we laid upon the world.
Tears come—salt tracing holy desolation,
Not distant but immersed in mortal sorrow.
This is the chasm: yawning, bitter, unclean.
God’s hands tremble as they hold our darkness.
For this moment, the eternal bowing inward,
To taste the agony abandoned by light.
And yet, beneath grief\'s suffocating rafters,
The promise coils like dawn beneath the horizon.