The morning breaks, and women come with spices,
Still in despair, to find their grief misplaced—
For he who once, though Lord of life, was dead
Has risen now, triumphant over death.
The morning breaks, and angels here descend,
All festively arrayed with borrowed glory,
To greet the mourners from an empty tomb
And be the first to tell the joyful news.
The morning breaks, and still the Victor waits
Here in the garden, just beyond the stone,
To bring joy to one mourner ere he goes
To lay his trophies at his Father’s feet.
The morning breaks; our praises now arise,
For we, as well, have passed from death to life
Because his power and life now work in us
That we may live, and death in us may die.
I wrote this over this past week, thinking about the various characters in the account we have received of that first Easter morning. Most of the stanzas more or less seemed to “write themselves,” and seemed to need my effort only to keep them from overflowing the somewhat restrictive structure I chose.
I always welcome your comments, critique, suggestions, or any other feedback on this poem or any other part of my work. (In other words, if you like it, if you don’t like it, if something “works”, if something “doesn’t work”, if it makes you think of something or someone, etc., please comment and say so!) If you like this, you can follow this blog, which includes one of my poems every Friday; you can also read other poems I’ve written here on this blog (or if that list is too intimidating, I’m posting more manageable subsets each week, such as yesterday’s installment, so you can just start with those). I’d particularly like to know which poems you think are my best.