Easter morn rose grey with fog
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.
Awhirl before my eyes did swirl the sparks
As one by one the candles turned to smoke
And sitting there in silent, stillest dark,
A flicker burned within and I awoke.
I felt a pang for that dear body broke
That bled betwixt time and eternity.
It seemed I saw His image in the smoke
And felt my heart, too, fixed upon that tree.
Oh how I ached to join this agony!
Yet I, near sleeping, safely sat below.
I closed my eyes the better then to see
And hear the ever-present, past echo.
To wait in darkness was my only wish;
Now hidden, I wanted no light but His.