Dusty, grey and cobwebbed,
Suddenly blown by the winds of God,
His tomb clothes ruffled and buffeted
By the voice of one beyond the grave.
The call of his name stirring him,
So that his once cold bones
Are Feeling like death warmed up,
And warmer with every second.
And before long life is coursing through
His veins, and death’s cursing is silenced,
And he is pushing his way into the sunlight,
Yawning and stretching and gulping,
Stirring from an endless night,
While his sisters are laughing
and crying and gasping,
As history is being made,
And hope is coming our way.

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