Tertia die resurrexit a mortuis (On the third day he rose again)

Dawn does not rush.

It comes softly,

as if the world itself is afraid to breathe.

I reach the next line:

On the third day he rose again.

And the silence bends

toward light.

The darkest day is not the final day.

The tomb is not the end of the story,

but its turning point.

What we call dead,

God calls seed.

What we bury in despair,

Love raises in mystery.

He rose—

not to erase death,

but to unmake it.

Not to deny the wounds,

but to show that they can shine.

The cross still stands,

but now as a tree that flowers.

It begins in stillness:

stone, linen, breath.

No thunder,

no spectacle—

just a slow stirring

as creation wakes from its long night.

And there, in the garden,

the world begins again.

Dew on grass.

A voice speaking a name.

Mary turns,

and grief gives way to recognition.

The gardener stands before her,

hands still scarred by mercy,

tending the soil of resurrection.

He walks the road to Emmaus,

a stranger at first,

his words burning in the hearts of the weary.

At supper,

bread breaks,

and suddenly they see—

light in the ordinary.

He vanishes,

but the fire remains.

He stands in the upper room,

where fear has bolted the door.

Peace, he says.

He shows his hands.

He breathes on them.

Love still carries scars.

Love still breathes forgiveness.

He meets them at the lakeshore,

where failure hangs heavy.

The smell of charcoal,

the sound of waves.

Breakfast sizzles.

Mercy tastes like fish and friendship.

The risen one still cooks for the hungry,

still restores the lost.

And he meets us still—

in the breaking of bread,

in the pouring of wine,

in the trembling of prayer,

in the warmth of dawn,

in the quiet moments when fear begins to fade.

I believe he rose again.

Sometimes I doubt.

Some mornings belief feels like sunrise;

other days it feels like holding ashes.

But even then—

he meets me.

In the place between faith and fear,

he stands,

hands open,

light spilling through the wounds.

Hope leans forward,

tender and persistent,

listening to the groans of creation.

It gazes through shadow,

finding within darkness

the first faint shimmer of dawn.

There is a holy audacity in this hope—

a quiet confidence

that all things are held

in nail-scarred hands,

that the soil itself waits

for the footsteps of resurrection.

So I believe—

in love stronger than death,

in mercy that mends what was torn,

in the gardener of new creation,

who still meets us in bread and wine,

who still meets us when we are afraid,

who still meets us at breakfast,

and who, even in doubt,

still meets me.

I believe

that the darkest day was never the last,

and that even now

the earth hums softly with resurrection—

for he said,

“I am the resurrection and the life.”

Rev'd Jon Swales

from the Creed Collection