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Whose journal is this?

By Joy Puvana.


In the silent embrace of night, I shutter my eyes tight,

But visions persist, refusing to take flight.

Dawn beckons, yet my mind is besieged,

With memories of His gentle deeds.


His visage, so tender, before my sight,

Touching lepers, bringing healing light.

The woman bleeding, he did not shun,

No aversion for any, not a single one.

Thousands feeding on the mountain side,

Bartimaeus screams, “Son of David! Take Heed”


Under rubble, I'd be buried, I fear,

Had He not called me by my name sincere.

Fierce was his anger, fearless and bold,

Against hypocritical powers, truth he told.


Now he's gone, how do I carry on?

This last tribute, before he's withdrawn.

Spices gathered, in my trembling hand,

To honor the one who walked the land.


Restless, I await the break of day,

Visions of miracles, they won't sway.

Sleepless, yet undeterred, I tread,

To honor my Savior, though my heart feels like lead.


Cock-a-doodle-doo, the dawn not yet here,

But my mission is clear, no room for fear.

Through rocks and gravel, I make my way,

My spirit racing, faster than my feet sway.


Will a stone block the tomb's entrance tight?

I care not, for my duty's in sight.

What after this act? Is it the end?

To sit by his feet, my soul to tend.


Wiping tears that blur my sight,

I hasten towards the morning light.

To the tomb where he laid, I run with pace,

To honor the one who redeemed my grace.


He balm'd my spirit, preserved from decay,

With his sweet fragrance, he showed the way.

Carrying spices, my offering humble,

Preserving his form, his essence divine,

His fragrance of salvation, forever mine.

Carrying his memory, in every step I take,

In his love, my soul awake.

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