abbotsford parish church@clydebank@scotland

dead

You can't feel the rain. It falls and the darkness is claustrophobic but you can't feel that either. Three women stretch towards the cold body of Jesus. Their black head-covers, soaked, their hands white with strain and their eyes and faces wet with tears and rain. There they wait until evening when an Arimathean shows them the permission order from Pilate. They have the right to the body and so it is lowered and the desperate huddle carry it, wailing, grief soar, pained, lead by the Arimathean. Once off the rubbish dump, they struggle up the hill towards the graveyard. They are taken to a fresh tomb and place the body there. It is already growing dark, for the second time that day. There is no time to embalm and they are hurried out before the Sabbath. The group lean on the large entrance stone, pushing it with their backs and arms and shoulders until it creeps over the entrance way. And there they leave it, and their dreams, and their tomorrows. Two of the women need to rest and sit on a small rock near the entrance. Their heads touch supporting each other. They stare into the silence. And again they find themselves waiting they know not what for. But they wait anyway&ldots;   Copyright: R Hamilton 1998

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