Immortality, no one ever offers or even buys,
No comfort for the grieving mother who cries;
Her child, forever lost, who dies.
Can you tell her this, as you look into her eyes?
Can you tell her that, at best,
her child’s end is maggots and flies?
Your pastor is a fraud in kindly guise.
Death makes a mockery of your spiritual highs.
The followers of Jesus were tortured and killed for lies.
Death refuses to compromise.
Death has no answer, no matter how strongly someone denies.
At the end of life, there is no eternal prize.
Death cuts, even the great, down to size.
No one recovers from grief, however hard one tries.
I can tell that Easter just doesn’t matter,
by the things that people say.
“Oh I suppose I ought to go to church on Easter day.”
To me, it matters. You can’t keep me away.
My dark world of death saw a bright resurrection ray.
My Jesus is alive! I want to dance and play!
I sing! I celebrate! I pray!
© 2009 by Chris Hansen
Author of Grandfather’s Journal Revelation Revisited and Secret of the Psalms This poem may be used in its entirety, with credits in tact, for non-profit ministering purposes.