In the Morning




He has been left in the tomb.
The Passover,
His Passover,
a lamb slaughtered,
each doorpost etched with His blood.

He was despised and rejected.

His love,
spat upon,
by those who feared His truth.
No political voice
spoke in His favor.
He was slain by the righteous.

One from whom people hide their faces.

Who can look at what they have done.
He counts His bones
and forgives.

Those who know His love
will find the wrappings
where vacated flesh once laid.
Doubt festers
until a single question is asked,
"Why do you shed tears?"

They have taken the Lord's body.

In the morning
there is a dance of joy,
delayed,
until they understand,
the blood and sweat on the linen
and the words
of an angel
and the crucified Lord.



copyright 2024 - Donald P James Jr

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