Easter Sunday: A Poem

A tempest fierce, with wind-whipped, savage waves;

A battered ship, whose captain stands alone,

Lashed to the mast, as billows gape like caves

Or yawning tombs, as timbers creak and groan.

He bears the raging gale that is our sin,

Fixed to the tree, and scourged by winds and rain, 

Yet keeps his course, through darkness and through din

And steers into the storm, despite the pain.

As nature quakes, he draws his final breath

And in that moment, all the storm is past

For, carried with him in his pain and death,

We sail beyond that squall and rest at last

Within the harbor-calm of Easter morn,

In whose bright respite hope is newly born.