When our last star has flickered out;
When our last square of daylight
Has been canceled by the rolling of a stone
That crushes everything our hope had built,
We grieve like those deceived.
We huddle with our frightened peers,
And wonder just how long a man must walk
To get back to his fishing boat,
Or why Emmaus seems so far.
Embarrassed, tortured not with nails but doubts,
We sabbath with no rest, our minds a fright house
Of unscripted dreads.
If we could wake the dead, we would—
Call life back to the silent lips, the pale hands—
As we had watched Him do.
But there is grief, and there is fear,
The burnt-out moons of this dark night.
And yet, beneath the hill, behind the stone,
Life stirs in answer to a Father’s call.
And He who made the rock
Some laborer had shaped to close His tomb
Steps out, reclothes Himself with His abundant life,
And strides forth like the sun at noon.
This day is more than we had dared to dream,
But everything we need.
Dawn does not break: it builds with rays unstoppable
Until all shadows disappear.
He has risen. Grace still rises. We will rise.
—Bill Knott