But after I am raised up, I will go before you to Galilee.
Through stained glass we learned
to picture the path to the cross—
our imaginations organized the
familiar details till the worn road
was more memory than image.
We know those steps like our own.
We recognize echoes hospital gowns—
emaciated and gaunt.
We know the way to Golgotha:
death defeats life.
But what of the unseen steps?
Those first foreign footfalls from an empty tomb:
did the disfigured feet limp slow,
reacquainting themselves with his weight, or
did they lift him lightly from the grave
moving out nimble and quick?
What new paths did dawn find
that first pioneer wandering?