The silent stillness mists around my shoulders-
A tepid quiet echoes all-around
I see the graves,
Cloud-gray and silent-cold
Asleep beneath the ground
And I wonder-
What kind of life this one
Or that one lived-and did it matter for the eternal? Or only for the distant, time-hushed “now”?
The mossy stones say nothing; only the stillness speaks, whispers to the soul
I gaze upward-ornate monuments, embellished with angels
Now christened with dusty soil and silent in the spring air—
“The deeds done in the body . . .”
I wonder-what will my deeds say?
“I am the Resurrection and the Life . . . “
His life, lived for mine
His deed of love
To cover my sin-stained hands—
His tomb, now empty
Hushes my shame
And whispers hope.
I walk through the cemetery—
The phoebe sings sweetly
Her sunlight song on my shoulder
Angels, alive, alive sing glory
To this one in the place of death, the place of life.