The dirt runs through my fingers as I grasp for bigger and bigger handfuls.
My fingernails are dirty; the creases in my hand are tainted brown.
I can't work fast enough.
Over and over again I bend to scoop up the rich, black soil that was so painstakingly piled.
Over and over again I throw it vehemently into the deep, black hole sitting at its side.
My tears mix to make mud that slows me down.
Puddles form as I pause, and I look into the well of shame and regret
Only to see my own blue eyes staring back at me.
Glistening, not sad, they are brimming and full of hope.
Barely noticing the ache in my back from my burden of meticulous toil,
I bend, often to my knees, to fill more and more of the depression.
The more I labor, the less I see of my face looking up at me
Until the ground is level and the semblance of me is gone.
Helpless to save myself, I had dug this grave - my only talent heaping death upon death.
Yet here I stand.
My salty tears have rendered this soil useless at the foot of a broken and battered wooden cross -
Bare, because the one who died on it was sent to the grave that I had just filled -
He had risen and was no longer dead.
No more will come of this mortal flesh soon to be eaten by worms.
No more dirt to move.
No more graves to dig.
It is finished.
I grasp the cross with both hands, bracing the ground with my feet to release it from it's station.
This grave needs no marker for it will not be revisited.
Beaming, I take up the cross to follow the Man who should be dead with my sin
But instead has given me new and abundant life.
I will never go back.