Holy Saturday 2018

Holy Saturday awash in grey;

saturated, the heavens grieve

their son, buried a day after

scourged, he ceased to breathe.

 

Bated, within our lungs, our breath

is kept; our vessels to break

are fit; Death crowned in laurel wreath,

laughs as our hopes he wreak.

 

Two millennia and still, still —

our lungs a tomb for breath stale.

We wander, waiting, no balm for ills

pale, we see creation through the veil.

 

Yea, he is risen, we know the call,

but this world leans toward the grave

until that day our victories do stall,

but how we need him now to save.