Even the sun itself will bow
for no power on earth, or hell below
will stand in the presence of The Christ.
Victorious on the those sticks of wood
His blood was shed
and yet remains
ever a reminder of His great love.
But don't look for Him there.
The cross is empty, the tomb vacant.
All He claimed to be, proven.
Risen. Alive. Glorified.
When troubles come
and come they will
look to the empty cross.
You can hear me recite this poem below:
in the stillness with Sandy
in the secret place with Cheryl
and singing in the Sunday choir with Deidra