The following is a poem by Chad Bird, M.Div., S.T.M.
Chad is a gifted poet and hymnist.
Ten acres of frigid rural soil
Thickly frosted in Easter’s pre-dawn Subterranean saints,
quilted in earth Smile warmly at the band of believers
Huddled above to catcall verses of victory
Into the mocking mien of chiseled stones
The rocky trophies of mortality’s coup
North, south, west, and east of Eden
Wizened hags, pimpled teens, snotty-nosed kids
All dust to dust, prey of the funereal broom
Swept beneath this rug of grass and weeds
Most forgotten by man, yet all remembered
By Him whose lungs breathed mud into man
Each fruit of a womb, the apple of His eye
Each soul, a priceless pearl, purchased
With crimson coinage minted in divinity’s veins
These wooden suitcases of rotting raiment
Sepulchered beneath the worshipers’ feet
Travel on, transported by time not space
From the hour of death to the day of judgment
Ever ready to spill their contents upward
No longer as bags of bones and soiled flesh
But resculptured clay pulsating with life
Lazaruses wiping graveyard dust from their feet
Like champagne corks, grave-stones shall pop
As unbottled bodies after long fermentation
Bubble upward with fresh blood and skin
Ready for their vintage soul waiting above
And joined by that ragtag band of believers
Who awoke early to go to the place of sleepers
Defying death and mocking mortality
Early one Easter morn.
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