An Easter poem

I found this moving poem on Llantwit Major parish website. Another site says it is written by a Sister Mary Ada. Easter from an unusual angle.

LIMBO

an Easter poem

The ancient greyness shifted suddenly and thinned
like a mist upon the moor before a wind.
An old, old prophet
lifted a shining face and said:
“He will be coming soon.
The Son of Man is dead.
He died this afternoon.”
A murmurous excitement filled all souls.
They wondered if they dreamed.
Save one old man who seemed
not even to have heard.
Then Moses, standing, hushed them all to ask
if any had a welcome song prepared;
if not, would David take the task?
And, if they cared, could not the three young men
sing the Benedicite, the canticle of praise
they made when God kept them from perishing in
the fiery blaze?

A breath of Spring surprised them,
stilling Moses’ words.
No one could speak, remembering
the first fresh flowers,
the little singing birds.
Still others thought of fields new·ploughed
or apple-trees, all blossom-boughed.
Or some the way a dried bed fills
with water, laughing down green hills.
The fisherfolk dreamed of the foam
on bright blue seas.
The old man who had not stirred
remembered home.

And there He was, splendid as the morning sun
and fair, as only God is fair.
And they, confused with joy, knelt to adore,
seeing that He wore five crimson stars
he never had before.
No canticle at all was sung;
none toned a psalm or raised a greeting song.
A silent man alone of all that throng
found tongue.
Close to his heart when the embrace was done,
old Joseph said “How is your Mother?
How is your Mother, Son?”