Boot Hill Easter
The day did not mean much to him,
That’s why he did not know—
Just how he came there Easter morn
With Tombstone down below.
There’s a tumbleweed a blowin’,
Pushed by the breath of God—
That moves across the distant range
And marks where He has trod.
The golden sun rises again
And bathes each tattered cross—
And like that day so long ago,
There is a sense of loss.
So for a time that ol’ graveyard
Has been again reborn—
As sins and sinners do repent
And they outgrow the thorn.
There’s a tumbleweed a blowin’,
Pushed by the breath of God—
That moves across the distant range
And marks where He has trod.
And so a man walks down Boot Hill,
Touched by the robe He wore—
With Easter and the truth in him—
A doubter now no more.
Copyright © Glen Enloe | Year Posted 2006
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