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For the umpteenth time Mary restlessly rolled her aching frame over on the mat she called her bed. The past two nights her body had tossed and turned almost as much as her weary brain. The thoughts and visions of that horrible day would not stop circling like ugly vultures reviewing the latest kill.
Finally she could stand it no longer and she rose to her feet. “I will go to His tomb and wait for the morning.” She stumbled around in the dark, but finally found her way. The cool air caressed her tear-soaked cheeks and burned her eyes, sensitive from hours of weeping.
Nearing the cave that held the body of her Lord, she was startled to see a gaping hole where the stone cover should have been. She pressed her fingers to her aching eyes and peered intently into the gloom to discern what the shadows held. It was true. Though it was still so early, someone had already been here and the stone was gone.
With only a moment’s pause she turned and ran to where the disciples Simon Peter and John were just arising from their similarly tortured slumber. “They have taken away the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid Him,” she gasped.