Seven Stanzas at Easter John Updike

Make no mistake: if He rose at all
 it was as His body;
 if the cells’ dissolution did not reverse, the molecules
 reknit, the amino acids rekindle,
 the Church will fall It was not as the flowers,
 each soft Spring recurrent;
 it was not as His Spirit in the mouths and fuddled
 eyes of the eleven apostles;
 it was as His flesh: ours. The same hinged thumbs and toes,
 the same valved heart
 that–pierced–died, withered, paused, and then
 regathered out of enduring Might
 new strength to enclose. Let us not mock God with metaphor,
 analogy, sidestepping transcendence;
 making of the event a parable, a sign painted in the
 faded credulity of earlier ages:
 let us walk through the door. The stone is rolled back, not papier-mâché,
 not a stone in a story,
 but the vast rock of materiality that in the slow
 grinding of time will eclipse for each of us
 the wide light of day. And if we will have an angel at the tomb,
 make it a real angel,
 weighty with Max Planck’s quanta, vivid with hair,
 opaque in the dawn light, robed in real linen
 spun on a definite loom. Let us not seek to make it less monstrous,
 for our own convenience, our own sense of beauty,
 lest, awakened in one unthinkable hour, we are
 embarrassed by the miracle,
 and crushed by remonstrance.