The Lord suggests we not predict the day and the hour,
but as you persist in this, at least remember: First,
it’s not the doom of a cosmic detonation so much as
the rending of a curtain at the cellular and celestial
levels—a dazzling advent that, yes, burns
and blinds like fire, but most essentially
transforms like light.

Second, if you must bet on chronology, put your money
on a Sunday. This really ought to govern your calculations,
for Sunday is the day when the ribcage of space expands
while time holds its breath, when fasts
may be broken while bread and wine present
body and blood, when Death first felt defeat
while Theanthropos quit the open tomb at dawn.

Much remained unchanged: Rome still ruled, fishermen kept
fishing, scribes scribing; there was and is still marrying
and burying, buying and selling. Even so, the world was renewed
that morning: eyes opening, hearts burning, feet running, breath
forgotten then quickened as the scarred, resurrected Lord appeared.
What to make of it?—more fruitful mystery? So,
who’s to say his return won’t be on a Sunday?

This poem was previously published in Tender Sieve: Poems (Resource Publications, 2023).