Dusty road, despairing pair,
Putting one foot in front of the other,
Grieving, bewildered, unaware.
Preoccupied with deep loss
Seeing once more that recent horror,
Their friend’s awful death on a cross.
Dulled by painful sorrow,
Immersed in tangled thoughts,
Anxious about tomorrow,
Barely noticing one coming aside
To question their troubles,
Matching their stride.
Their vision was clouded with doubt and tears
So, recognition delayed,
They told him the news and their fears.
No reproving or chiding in his talk
As with clear understanding
He walked their walk,
Then joined them in a simple meal.
It was bread that was broken.
By this they saw what was real.
Tears were gone, hearts on the mend.
It was as bread was broken,
That they knew their dear friend,
And learned by heart what eyes had concealed.
That He was with them.
That first Easter, in Emmaus.
I travel my own path far from Jerusalem.
Am I blinded by what comes next to do?
Will I know what comes next to be?
In the breaking of the bread, I remember Him.
I see with my heart, not my eyes.
With is a powerful thing.
Eastering, again.
Mary Ann Parker
