Every Grave A Garden
There is a silence after sorrow,
a pause between the falling tear
and the first trembling note of hope,
in a space where all seems lost.
Yet you, gentle Christ,
entered the ache of the world
as seed falling into earth, hidden, broken,
awaiting the touch of dawn.
In the mystery of your surrender,
the world is turned inside out:
loss becomes invitation,
wounds become windows,
and the stone rolled away
reveals more than empty space,
it reveals the promise of becoming.
Teach me to trust the slow work of transformation,
to find you in the cracks and crevices of ordinary days,
to welcome the small dyings
that make room for greater life.
Let me live with open hands,
ready to release what I cannot keep,
ready to receive what I could never earn:
the quiet miracle of resurrection
unfolding in the heart’s deep soil.
May I walk this path of dying and rising,
not with fear,
but with the wild hope
that every ending
is your invitation
to begin again.
In your passion and rising
you have shown us the way:
that every cross can become a tree of life,
and every grave a garden.
