Christ carries the great burden on his back,
weeping, bleeding. The burden is you.
He carries you to Golgotha,
though people scorn him.
Though he stumbles, he carries you steadily.
On the hill he is nailed to you.
You hold him as he dies.
His blood runs down you.
He is heavy, bearing the weight of all the world.
Yet he weighs no more than God.
He dies and is buried, and you are relieved of the weight.
You stand through the night, alone and still.
The next day is quiet. Stillness.
On the third day, with the rising light,
he comes to you, alive again.
He takes you in his arms,
bathing you in light,
until you are light.
He begins to pull you up,
his cheek pressed in to you,
his sweat and tears running down you,
your grave loosening, stones rolling away.
He draws you up out of the ground.
It cannot hold you; its grip is nothing
against his gentle, insistent lifting,
until you are free.
Your arms and legs are strong and lively now,
your heart beating with life.
You have gained the strength to bear God.
He walks with you.
You hold onto him,
but he is not carrying you.
You are carrying him.
You walk with him
back into the city, rejoicing,
for your burden is light.