The road to glory is paved with suffering,
watered with tears, sticky with blood.
The cross and the empty tomb;
can we hold them in tension,
this ache, real as resurrection?
Rejoicing, we know our story's end:
this sickness shall not end in death.
Heavy hearts labor,
bodies fail, friends betray.
Worldly power disarmed
fights dirty still. Bare-fisted blows
leave us breathless.
The tomb is empty!
But, Death, thy sting is sharp.
This thorn tears flesh, yet lingering scars
tremble not for the grim Prince,
his doom as sure as our citizenship.
Strangers of peculiar custom, we tread
as wayfarers without sure footing in
worlds here glimpsed.
The Kingdom of heaven draws near in power,
well-hewn on firm foundation.
The fullness of God in empty grave and
stone rolled away.
The Tree of Life lifted up
yields healing leaves and verdant promise
ancient as time,
new as birth.
shared with imperfect prose.image: mscelnik