The Morning

Death asleep

was soon disturbed

amidst his gloomy dreams

by a brilliant,

flashing hand 

afire with golden beams. 

It was the voice

of Him who rose

upon a Sunday morn

that voiced the shout

of eschaton

and blew the waking horn.

Arise! he said.

Arise! Make haste!

Your slumber has expired.

Your fortune

now awaits you, Fiend,

a future writ in fire.

The Death-ghost

shook his cobweb locks

and blinked his heavy eyes,

stood and lumbered

toward the door

with deep and ancient sighs.

Through the portal

he advanced,

obeying Christ's demand.

He disappeared

and so released

the captive, spell-bound band.

Then death was gone,

asleep no more, 

consumed in waking fire.

And resurrected saints

they sang

God's praise, a morning choir!