Here was the gardener, he whose hand had laid

The body someplace else

A servant waiting standing, and before her

Questioning herself

Gone Peter, and that unnamed one beloved,

They who had come running

Had seen, believed, a plainly staggering event,

He was not now here dead

But Thomas, absent Thomas, he improvidently howled

A loud rousing debate, and even after

A common voiced accord among his honest fellows

And followers, lended its weight against his single

Variance. This band who by immediate experience

Had come to understand…..

*

Still stood here in the garden, Mary, phased, a woman

Grieved, has deemed him an attendant menial churl

At gardening as he should

Has asked him: tell me, where is it you’ve laid him

I shall go there, decide the things appropriate.

Her answer moves her, answers all the askings

Of which she would;

In: Mary.

Her name declaiming detonates: Rabbonai!