Mary Magdala herself, had we ever found her gospel, would, I suspect, explain it this way: I never suspected Resurrection and to be so painful to leave me weeping With joy to have met you, alive and smiling, outside an empty tomb With regret not because I’ve lost you but because I’ve lost you in how I had you— in understandable, touchable, kissable, clingable flesh not as fully Lord, but as graspably human. I want to cling, despite your protest cling to your body cling to your, and my, clingable humanity cling to what we had, our past. But I know that … if I cling you cannot ascend and I will
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