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.

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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.