We have rested;
deep resting, Sabbath resting.
On the hill, dawn settles.
Women come with oil, too late.
The wrappings have lately stirred
with life, the stone rolled open.
And like unseen stars,
saved souls ascend to alleluias,
finding, at last, the gates ajar.
What has come is opportunity.
What has come is hope.
The dead stretch and flex in their tombs.
There is no death;
death has been purchased
by a handful of nails, by thorns and blood.
It dies to itself that life might hold sway,
as at last it does.

Our risen Lord, son brighter
than any sun,
has conquered death.
He breathes life into us;
we arise to Easter.

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