Easter morn rose grey with fog
-anticipation hid-
No dawn’s light to testify
to what the Savior did.
.
Still we know and sing aloud
of the Risen Son
And yet the part that strikes me most
was that on Friday done.
.
Rising up is natural;
the sun never stays down.
What is more a miracle’s
a God put ‘neath the ground.
.
That He should live, lifted high,
is glorious, fitting, right-
And yet what is most shattering
is that my Lord would die.
.
Rising reign proves deity,
but in that final breath,
Is found the Lover’s agony
that giveth life in death.
.
Now on this grey Easter morn
the fog is found a friend;
Coronated by cruel thorns,
the radiant King ascends.
.
I know by noon the sun will burn
this ling’ring shade away.
Yet ’twas the shrouded cross earned
the joy that warms today.
.
“He is Risen!” Yes, indeed!
We, in Christ, are raised!
And “lema sabachthani”
Has turned to sunlit praise.
“Easter morn rose grey with fog”- A Poem for Easter Sunday, 2018

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