We journeyed westward from Jerusalem,
towards the setting sun. Our sun had set –
our blinding and enlightening sun, so warm
and rich, with soothing, gentle rays, and yet
doomed to observe his cruel, fated course
and sink beneath death’s merciless horizon.
We walked and talked as we approached Emmaus,
struggling to make out any rhyme or reason
in what had passed. And then, as if a breeze
brought poignant music drifting from afar,
a strange, familiar voice beguiled our ears
with truths that soothed our misery and fear.
Our vanished sun had risen from the dead:
we knew him in the breaking of the bread.
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