In this season of bright sadness
a voice in the dark says:
"Go. There is nothing left
for you here," all is madness
We go. In silence we slide
out into the night,
round moon slicing the sky
above, its sadness bright
The table is turned,
the wine swallowed burned
its way down inside
now part of us, blood of Christ
Christ, bloody and torn
turns universe-tables,
Son of Man crowned with thorns
endures epithets, labels of scorn
Dark sun shades that day
we remember as this weekend
crawls on toward the ember
of new fire, night turning grey
Ashes of sadness form a nest
for Heaven's Fire to rest
before He leaps upward
in life—excelling mythic-bird
There is nothing left
here in the tomb—death bereft
of corpse and terrible sting,
Life holds in hand the final victory
The Fullest Extent of Love
exited the grave on His own two feet,
turning the sadness of sorrow sweet. . .
