He Walks in the Garden Still
There is a hush in the early morning hours, a stillness that comes before the sun lifts the veil of night. And in that silence—on the third day—it happened.
Not with thunder. Not with armies. But with light. With presence. With the quiet authority of a Savior who had passed through death and come out the other side—alive.
On that morning, the tomb did not echo with loss. It stood open, abandoned. What once held death had been emptied by grace.
Mary stood weeping in the garden, her hands trembling, her heart broken. But then… a voice.
“Mary.”
He always called us by name.
And so Resurrection came not just in power, but in personal peace—in the whisper that death does not have the final word, in the footsteps of a risen Lord walking softly through the garden paths of our lives.
He Walks in the Garden Still
The stone rolled back,
but not with roar—
just morning light
on graveyard floor.
No trumpet blast,
no shaking sky,
just folded cloth
and breath drawn high.
He came to her
with wounded grace,
and joy poured forth
from sorrow’s place.
No need to shout,
no need to strive—
He walks in gardens,
calling… “Alive.”
And so we rise with Him.
Not just someday, but today.
Not just in glory, but in gentle hope—
the kind that finds us in quiet places and calls us by name.
He is risen.
He is with us.
And He walks in the garden still.
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