He conquered stone
(hate, bitter hate)
to rise.
Three days before—
when on the cross,
the cries
of those who knew not
what they did
nor why
rang in his ears
and rose to fill
the sky.
Yet he looked down
with love.
His awful plea,
"My God, my God,
why hast thou
forsaken me?"
was not from pain
or hatred's
agony
was not from shame
of hanging on
a cross
but sudden fear
his work might all
be lost—
the world forget
his works, forget
his words
and go its way
in blindness—
like lost herds.
The moment passed:
God could not fail
His Son,
His faithful, pure,
and always loving
one.
It took three days
of steadfast prayer
to rise.
Then he was free.
(Hate, bitter hate
and lies
couldn't kill him,
couldn't close
his skies.)
Malevolence
could never hold
Love down.
Love conquered—
and he rose to claim
the crown.
