Image by Loci Lenar via Flickr
by Gideon Burton
With distant thunder, hooves upon the plains,
comes sweaty death to plow our bones to powder.
Horizons tremble, skies explode in rains,
our prayers are dimmed by darkness growing louder.
Good God, what whole and frozen night consumes
this flesh or drilling sunrays dessicate
the supple muscles? Dust clogs up the tombs,
so instant and so absolute our fate.
Then turns the slumberer, our ocean home,
fresh tides in yawning newness paint the shores.
The April One to all gives liberal loan:
So many wakings, living spreads its spores.
Though dim his entrance, slow and seeming late,
he wakes us wholly, Jesus, savior great.
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