9-8 Eastertide

Eastertide

In Flanders Fields those rows—Auschwitz ditch graves—
Gulag mounds below snow—lost souls heaved in caves—
MRSA steals a child—one too many pills—
A bullet rips through flesh—hypothermic chill—

The end? Such spearing grief—the bare seat and bed—
The memories that haunt—the future, all dread?
There is one hope for all—everlasting spring—
The balm from Death’s cruel sting—the eternal King.

From Roman nails and wood—from limestone-sculpt tomb—
The Holy One rose up—to open spring bloom—
Death forever vanquished—past the sky’s blue sea—
He holds the key to life—for eternity—

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