Not in Vain

The labor of his lifetime
seemed to vanish like steam,
his preaching and his healing
like an ill-recalled dream
bled away, a guileless victim
of a poorly planned scheme
as his pierced form began to wane...

Two hands that never grappled
or contested for wealth,
that only sought to gather
weary souls to himself,
stretched out to feel the stabbing
on that stony, bleak shelf
where vultures croaked their refrain...

Where were the hungry thousands
whom his kindness had fed,
the grievers and the lepers
who had welcomed their dead
from the realm of dark and terror
by the words that he said?
Could they not cry out to restrain?

Where were the faithful learners
who had sat a his feet
and vouchsafed their allegiance
never dreading the heat?
Had all those years been wasted--
all his hopes a cruel cheat--
as their abandonment now made plain?

A thousand hopes had budded,
but now, where was the bloom?
Those joys, a lifeless body,
were encased in a tomb...
The feast so many craved
had been swallowed by gloom,
not a crumb or a drop to remain...

But, Resurrection Morning,
every hope was re-born!
And from our age of mourning
shrouding curtains were torn!
Yes, Resurrection Morning
freedom for the forlorn
blew a horn all warning,
treating sadness with scorn,
and timeless faith reforming--
yes, Resurrection Morn
means his work, and ours, is not in vain!



MNA 10.26.2014