by Edie Klyve

The Day

Oh my King, Your suffering, grieves the very depths of me.
Your flesh so frail, the nails impale, upon that tree of pain.
The hammer cruel, the devil's tool, does smash MY heart, and I am shattered.
All my Hope is dying.

The lowering sky, the angry clouds, with claps of thunder protest.
The lightening splits a jagged crack amid the blackened tempest
The ground begins to roll and heave; it shakes its shoulders sobbing.

Clutching each other in grief and fear, we tremble as the day turns night.
Our dearest Friend, the purest Soul, Who graced us with His Life and Light,
Death now is robbing.

The New Day

The rosy dawn does seem to bring uncommon cheer to morn.
We wend our way in solemn steps, with sorrow, hearts forlorn
With fragrance of the oil and balm diffusing all around.

What is this? The stone's moved way! What can the meaning be?
Just three days ago, we saw Him die upon that tree!
But there, in testimony, the slab lies cold and bare! The wrappings in a pile lie!

His body is not there!
Why seek you the Living among the dead? a heavenly voice breaks through.
He is risen just as He said, and He is looking for you.

Klyve, 04/04/2021
Page Update, December 07-2022