The Third Day
With trembling hands, in silence,
they took Him from the cross.
Bloody flesh, torn and bruised.
Lifeless. All is lost.
A sudden storm had chilled
the air, near his time of death.
Now puffs of fog burned from
their lungs, and they struggled
for each breath.
But hurried on by the by the
closing day, for Sabbath sure
would follow, they found a
place to lay his clay, an earthen
vase white and hollow.
Quickly them they sealed his
tomb, in the belly of the earth.
A rich mans grave would give
him room, as a stable had at birth.
Now lone, in fear and grief, to numb
to even pray. For gone from them was
the surety of only yesterday. Gone.
But on the third day, while they
struggled just to sleep, with no
one else to praise him the very
stones began to speak.
And the great stone cried out
"MASTER and quickly rolled
away and the Lord of Host
stepped from the grave whom
men had sought to slay.
In his hand he held the keys, upon
the serpent's head he stood. And all
the sin of all the days were washed
white in his blood. Oh death! Where
is thy sting? For He is risen, a Mighty
King, and I, His son and heir.
© Copyright by Mike Denney