Sometimes we need to take a break from the books to see the sky and the little things in the grass at our feet.
Poetry can open our hearts and minds to worship the Lord during the Easter season.
They’ve bared your sweet-clovered belly —
you … who knelt near still waters, and
slept in lush pastures.
Without blemish, he said, and
you were herded home,
high-stepping our muddy streets
with feigned concern.
Winsome, you charmed us, but
your blood was more precious —
we’ve killed for less.
And so we wipe warm, sticky masses of it,
red-wash our splintered doorways and
at the angel of death.
—Judith L. Roth