In the midst of darkness and death,

   a cacaphonied silence,
   I look for light 
              and I hear...
                      through the muffled years...
   that Peter Cottontail is
  down the bunny trail



  Easter’s on its way.

  The triumphant march 

   of fingers up and down

   the piano keys,

   and the clarion- jubilant voice

               of my mother,

   and the bright light suffusing

   into the living room while

     the sunshine and dapple-leaf-shadows dance.


For 24 long years
      I have been amongst the jeering crowd
                 at Golgotha 
The screaming,


 “Trust not her who lies in your embrace”


Like a profane mocker at a feast

she drained my light and song

 with shrill and sundering screams

           that terrified my dreams
                   as I slept fitfully 
                           at Golgotha

"Where is your God?!"
 "What has He made?!"
  "What are you?!"
               she spat her venomous vitriol.


 I am nothing,

           wonderfully and fearfully nothing
 "Dust to dust..."
         Dust so quickly swirled in cloudy thought
                  by that restless, jeering crowd 
                                      at Golgotha 


     But my God 
              sings over nothing and dust,
     His dewy breath



                                     the unsettled dust.


And the face of the earth is renewed,

 while mercurial winds

            blow the screaming, 

   crowd of chaff away


“Though I sit in darkness, He is my light.

              My eyes will see her trampled in the mire”

 In the shadow of Golgotha 
 He has been my light,
 my song in darkest night

 My song began with hesitation, 
           but I remember that day
           in the small country church.
           When I lifted my voice,
                          the screamer was perplexed,
                                her face contorted
                                       in shock and deepest doubt.

      I’ve seen the mockers consider…

       a brief glimpse into their darkened souls,

                                   before they double down

       with stiff-necked hunch

                                    and cursing frown,
      into their self-dug pit 
      a fetid mass of stinking ___t!


They grow dimmer in dark night

           and their screaming is swallowed…

              by the whispering of trees 
                              and caressing breeze
                                             lofting me away like Phillip...
           to that sunlit room
           where the dappled-dancing shadows
            of branch and leaf
                        wave themselves
                               in charismatic applause

           while the notes march on

           with her full-bright song

                                                               Easter's on its way


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