Easter means more to those who know
the echo of a voice unheard,
the sound of silence in the air,
the loss that leaves no parting word.
The Savior in Gethsemane
consumed our sins on bended knee,
took every sorrow, every loss
and broke them on the rough-hewn cross.
I love those peaceful moments of the heart,
when mind and spirit finally run free,
the fleeting moments, seldom set apart,
when every soul is stilled to breathe, to be.
A rock is sure, reliable,
predictable and sane.
Its nature, set in solid stone,
shows little wax or wane.
At Christmas, simple things are best:
A family meal, a day of rest,
A sprig of holly on the tree,
A sweet noel, sung joyfully.
Draw lightning from the sky.
Call down the rain on shifting sands.
Become the one who understands
where strength resides.
Control the tides; create your wake;
trust in your flow for its own sake.
No looking back, except to marvel
at the glory. You live the story.
When my burden seems overlarge,
I flatter myself that I’m in charge.
Yet every cross was borne before
by One who comprehends much more
of trial and sorrow, grief and pain,
than I could ever hope to gain.
When I look in and cannot hide
the emptiness that reigns inside,
I wonder what has altered me,
erasing hues I used to see.