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A fronte praecipitium a tergo lupi. (In front of you, a precipice. Behind you, wolves.)

Sunday, April 20, 2014

Day of the 20th--Prose Poem--He Rises

As it is Sunday and I'm writing this way in advance, I have no idea what other people are doing for a poem today. I'm doing Prose. So here it is:

He Rises

But hark! What light through yonder window breaks?
Tis the Son who rises in all glory
No mere earthly bloom
But Scion of the House of Elohim
He it is who at His Father's word
Furls the sunset in all its splendor
He who set the waves to wash the shore
And bid the larks rise up at dawn.

It is the Son whose battered flesh
Hung upon a Roman tree
And from His watch in moonlit glade
Wrought for us what no other man could ever do.
Scion of His Father's house
Who bid the mountains rise from desert's floor
Tis He who wrest fro us
A berth at our Father's loving side.
He who guides us, holds the lamp,
Bids us follow Him Home.
© 2014 by H. Linn Murphy

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