They say he put himself in your shoes,
not so much to walk like you
as to arrive at those same destinations of guilt and regret,
so put yourself in his,
if what they say is true,
and today some thousands of years ago,
he awoke from death.
Sleeping like a rock is one thing;
sleeping behind one is another,
then, rolling it away,
those first stabbing rays of sunshine
in eyes once running fluid,
how long did they need to adjust?
What did that first fresh breath taste like?
The tomb, thick with the smell of your own rotting,
left behind for a sip of water,
quenching tongue of stone.
How acute are the ears
after three days of silent death?
Were the chirping birds an orchestral crescendo?
Was your breath an echo in that cavern of your mind
until more waking thoughts filled your head,
giving it less emptiness to bounce around?
At any point,
do you think,
"This is really happening.
Our plan really worked."
This is the ultimate jail break.
Your faith is the key you swallowed
to pass three days later;
the guards never suspected.
The shroud is your prison uniform,
left behind so you could wear a living suit
and blend in with everyone else.
You're slipping on shoes that
have walked a million miles --
yours, his, and everyone else's,
if what they said is true.
If what they said is true,
and you put yourself in his shoes,
keep them on.