Poem: Easter

Easter

The dead are raised
from the dark mire
of a life worse than death,
more broken,
less certain,
hopeless.

The dead are raised,
the past erased,
the robe new,
prepared to make us worthy,
cleansed
of fear.

The dead are raised,
the stain of mere earth,
of sin and foolishness,
of youth and middle age,
is gone.

The dead are raised,
all around us, the walking wounded
dance to new music, and
God dances
with us.

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May my friends and readers around the world have a blessed Easter!

Tom