Mary is prostrated with Her face on the floor. She looks like a poor wretch. She looks like that withered flower of which She has spoken.
The closed window is opened with a violent banging of the heavy shutters, and with the first ray of the sun, Jesus enters.
Mary, Who has been shaken by the noise and has raised Her head to see which wind has opened the shutters, sees Her radiant Son: handsome, infinitely more handsome than He was before suffering, smiling lively, brighter than the sun, dressed in a white garment that seems woven light, and Who is advancing toward Her.
She straightens Herself up on Her knees and crossing Her hands on Her breast, She says with a sob that is joy and grief, “Lord, My God.” And She remains thus, enraptured in contemplating Him, with Her face all washed by tears, but made serene, pacified by His smile and by the ecstasy.
But He does not want to see His Mother on Her knees, like a servant. And He calls Her, stretching out His hands from the wounds of which emanate rays that make His glorious Flesh even brighter: Mother! But it is not the sorrowful word of the conversations and the farewells before His Passion, or the heart-rending lament of the meeting on Calvary and of the agony. It is a cry of triumph, of joy, of freedom, of rejoicing, of love, of gratitude. And He bends over His Mother, lifts Her up, He presses Her to His Heart and kisses Her.
Mary realises then that it is not a vision, that it is Her Son Who has really risen, that it is Her Jesus, the Son Who still loves Her as a Son. And with a cry, She flings Her arms round His neck, and She embraces and kisses Him, laughing in Her weeping. She kisses His Forehead, where there are no longer any wounds, His Head no longer unkempt and bloody, His shining Eyes, His healed Cheeks, His Mouth no longer swollen. She then takes His Hands and kisses their backs and palms, their radiant wounds, and She suddenly bends down to His Feet and uncovers them from under His bright garment and kisses them. Then She stands up, looks at Him, but dares not.
But He smiles and understands. He uncovers His chest a little and says, “And this one, Mother, are You not kissing it, this one that grieved You so much and that You alone are worthy to kiss? Kiss my Heart, Mother. Your kiss will cancel the last remberance of what is sorrowful and will give Me that joy, which My Joy of having risen from the dead still lacks.” And He takes the face of His Mother in His Hands and He lays Her lips on the lips of the wound of His Chest, from which streams of a very bright light are flowing.
Mary’s face is haloed by that light, flooded as it is with its beams. She kisses and kisses, while Jesus caresses Her. She never tires kissing. She looks like a thirsty woman whose mouth is attached to a fountain and who drinks from it the life that was escaping her.
Jesus speaks now.
“It’s all over, Mother. You no longer have to weep over Your Son. The trial is over. Redemption has taken place.”
Taken from Poem of the Man-God Chapter 614