By Ian Mosley
The dawn does not disperse, but in fact
removes the image even of the dark
which just one moment past, in cloak intact
and seamless seemed to own the world–remark
the ways in which our mind cannot embrace
contráries: ashen bones cannot be raised,
the purest hyssop won’t our filth efface,
but rather death will drag us where none are praised.
But then the dawn: a paschal glow that waxes
and seeps across our mortal vale until
the grip of death upon these bones relaxes,
and life will warm the flesh that none can kill.
In our fast, in our lenten gloom,
we wait the Son who overcame the tomb.