She did not recognise Him.
And I too ofttimes can barely recognise Him.
My faith is like the forsythia before me, a memory of its bright yellow glory ever more slim.
But my hope rises like a distant hymn.
No, He is not just the gardener. He is here in this spring garden.
He is here in the brightening yellow purple of the primrose oxlip.
He is here in the lawn, it’s life surging, strewn with the daisy’s white and yellow pardon.
He does not say “Noli me Tangere” but gently gives me leave to bring the flowers to my lip.
And surging life too for the mauve of birds eye speedwell. How then can I weep at His loss.
He calls be by my name and then I know.
And do I then have the courage to say he has risen from his cross.
And do I then have the courage like these wild plants, so inconsequential, the courage to sow.
Like Mary will I run to tell my friends of his word.
An leave awhile in minds eye this spring garden to write of new life undeterred.