We taste “alleluia” on parched lips.
An Easter REsurrection Reflection
See? The tomb is empty.
A stone rolled away.
A hollow husk.
See? This emptiness fills us.
We taste “alleluia” on parched lips,
praise springs forth.
What does a stone rolling away sound like?
The laughter of one set free.
God of hollowed-out husks and empty tombs,
We’ve heard the stone rolling away.
We’ve peered inside.
We’ve been amazed—and alarmed.
Empty tombs startle us.
And yet, O God, we seek life amid death. Hope amid despair.
Roll away this old world’s stones of injustice.
Empty out from us death and decay.
Breathe into us graced amazement.
We are dust, O God, and to dust we shall return.
And on this day?
Because of your love in Christ, dust sings breath-taking alleluias.
We sing alleluia.
Because of your love in Christ, rocks roll away.
Tombs empty out. Hearts fill up.
We give you thanks, O God, for your death-denying, life-birthing, justice-making gifts of Easter love.
Today is the last day of April. April 30, 2020.
It is also the last day of National Poetry Writing Month.
What a month to celebrate poetry. Thirty days (and more) of social distancing and worry and uncertainty. Thirty days of poems.
So I did it. A poem—or at least a draft—and blog each of the thirty days. Poetry journeyed with me through these uncertain days and will continue to be a traveling companion as April showers bring May flowers. . .
I went to see her new headstone
and the gate was open, just a crack.
Did someone sneak in
Cement kings and queens,
knights and pawns too
plot a resurrection
of memories in repose
Grandpa wearing his best Sunday suit
Ephremia Myers lying down
next to her only child
(born September 6, 1885,
died October 4, 1991)
Uncle Lock and Aunt Mary
side by side
they always were—
I turn to leave,
—dust to dust—
on my jeans
marked by remembering
mama is at rest
Or is she—
I key in the number to
Lady’s Funeral Home:
“There’s no death date
on my mother’s tombstone.
What should I do?”
She did too—I think.