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Tuesday, April 5, 2011

Poetry: Our Story

I don't know why, but I wrote another poem. I can guarantee to all of you that I am no poet. Even so, I felt inspired just now. This poem has no official title, but perhaps it doesn't need one. Let me know what you think.

Body, sinew, skin and bone,

Blood and muscle still,
Dry and decay inside their home
To go into the great unknown
Beyond their "owner's" will.

For mortal man has ended this
The life of greatness destined there.
He sought forever endless bliss
But then felt Death's cold bitter kiss
No more to breathe the air.

What hope is there for long-dead man
To ever rise again?
What dream for him his wings to span,
Some long-forgotten glorious plan
To save him from his stain?

But, lo, the Son of Man arrives
And tears the curtain, breaks the tomb.
For he gives hope of brand-new lives
Into Death's grip he humbly dives
For lives again to bloom.

So now a hope for all mankind:
The resurrection stands
A constant sign him to remind
That now he sees though once was blind
From holes in feet and hands.

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