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.
For Brian Strand's 'YOUR CHOICE (2),any form,any theme' Poetry Contest
Contest Details
Written for a dear friend, who lost her son when he was still a fairly young man
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