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.