paschaltide
Sun glinting gold on the grass outside
My window, and bumblebees bumbling
In the warm spring air, but I—
I am a frosted windowpane,
Looking out on the fresh green
World in all its glory whilst I—
I freeze deeper and greyer inside,
And I take my heart in my
Frostbit, stiffened hands and give it—
Give it over to chilling winds and
Gasping, grasping roots cold as
The thoughts that creep through my mind—
My mind, bitless and reinless and unrestrained,
But it deigns to slumber as the Earth
In winter, in a never-ending winter of
Lord, Creator of the ‘wakening spring,
Stretching these days with fingers deft,
Pulling them gently to give life and birth—
Birth to a season of hope renewed,
As of children roused by sunrises pink
And sweet, out of slumber of lingering nightmares—
Nightmares of breathing that is shallow and choked,
Of eyesight fading, fleeing, to black;
Of frozen lips and tongues and hearts—
But Your kiss is warm and Your face is bright
As the golden sun in summer nigh
On glistening waters and brown, tilled earth—
Earth, it covers so many graves,
And I am buried in a bottomless tomb
Of my own making, but Lord—
Lord, Who died and rose again,
Who swept through hell and captives saved,
I reach out, cold and almost dead, for