On Easter Morn
In quietude of early dawn
she stood on Easter Day,
where rested now her dearest son
too early passed away.
As light’s first rays peeled shadows from
the grave’s cold marbled stone,
she leaned and whispered into wind
her words of sorrow sown.
“I’ll never see his face again!”
she cried to wind and God.
“Why you, my son?” With stifled sob
she fell to grassy sod.
And then resplendent in the east,
as if to give reply,
the sunrise broke and seemed to loose
the truth from crimson sky.
Though blind she’d been, she now could see.
As earth was bathed in red,
it dawned on her that Easter morn
how Christ for all had bled.
Our worldly time is very short;
immortal all shall be.
The Comforter assured her this;
her son again she’d see.
By Andrea Dietrich
For the "Easter Inspirations" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Linda-Marie The Sweetheart of P.S.