It’s the women who get me every time. 

 It’s the women who get me every
time. 

The women who for the first time have know equality with a man, who have been considered worthy of being taught of being listened to and who have loved with tender care this very different man amongst them. It’s the women who have been included in a world where that just didn’t happen. 

It’s the women who get me every time. 

The women who stay at his side when all the rest have scattered. The women who were there when he died, at his darkest hour, who remained in love.

It’s the women who get me every time. 

The ones who take spices to the tomb, who stand wondering at the open grave. Who run and run and tell, who aren’t heard but who know what they saw. They know what they saw. It’s the woman who stands in the garden and who hears the voice calling her name like no one else has ever done. Stirring with hope and joy and wonder and who longs to hug and touch and see. 

It’s the women who get me every time. 

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