Every year I rise again from the dead

On Easter Sunday a figure appeared in my inner world;
he took me aside and showed me
how often I acclaim myself in triumph there,
manifesting as the special one.

We looked at the times also that I betray myself,
selling my integrity for a sum that can never be enough.

Again and again in the garden of my mind,
I attack my enemies, who turn out to be myself in the end,
so that I have to work hard to heal the self-inflicted wounds.

I saw how every year I try to kill off my capacity for life,
in order to fit in with what the authorities in me require,
and I saw how my mother mourned the loss,
because, having loved me so much,
she knew the potential I was sacrificing.

I have scorned myself, and scarred myself,
and clumsily tried to stop everything, out of misplaced pity.

At critical points, I was not there for my son,
as my father was not there for me, and I cried.

Leaving myself for dead,
I have laid myself to rest in a cave,
and blocked out the world.

But every year, I roll away the stone,
every year I rise again from the dead,
every year life renews itself within me,
and will not be denied, despite my best doubts.

In the end the figure turned to me and said,
‘Unless we know we are God,
God cannot know he is us’.

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