Our dreams in shreds,

battered,

scattered,

heart-shattered -

All the things we thought that mattered

have slipped

in the stripped form,

hand-clawed,

thorn-pierced,

blood-matted form

nailed

to a cross.
 
 

It's not just a man who's died,

but our hopes,

lives,

yearnings,

mission,

heart-pourings

of a vision that might have been.

"Dream dreams," they sneered

in snide scorning

as they hammered home the last three taunts

of a devil's smile.

They might as well

have slammed them into my heart.
 
 

We've been the extra mile

and back again

and nowhere left to start.
 
 

Is the morning too still

to hear a word twice whispered?

Is there dawning possible

from hearts all bitter-twisted?
 
 

Who dares disturb my grief

or bring a word?
 
 

But there it is again.

No raised voice this, nor distant,

but quiet, insistent,

slowly stripping dawn's resistance

to the joy it brings.

I try to mourn:

"Tell me where they've laid him!"

Warm eyes have none of it.

No graven gaze engulfs my face,

but love -

reborn,

restored,

regiven

from a riven heart

that took the path of love.

Faith flickers,

full-fanned

bursts out aflame -

And Man! -
 
 

Suddenly the enormity of it all strikes you .........
 
 

That death

was just a birth

the world will not contain.