You rose, O Christ, creation's brightest morn, but still you show the marks where you were torn. On us who wound you still as we did then, breathe peace again. On Thomas, smarting raw with newfound grief, who could not bear the burden of belief, when he cries out at last, “My Lord and God!” show him your heart. And Mary, who your messenger became, was blind to you until you called her name. She clutched at you: Her frightened grasp release and give her peace. Then Peter, too, who knew himself afraid but when the cockerel crowed three times, “Betrayed!” whose courage died, as it lived, by the sword: Have mercy, Lord. And even—in your mercy's farthest scope— on him who dangled from a desperate rope, poor Judas, come to greet you with a kiss: Forgive him this. For none of us can love you as we should; for all of us, your grief turns to our good. On us who take our comfort in your wounds, have mercy, too.
Beautiful. Thanks for sharing!