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.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: