Response to Sunday Scribblings prompt.
The story's old, the hero looks to lose.
Designer dull and dated on the op shop shelf, this
Good News for Modern Man does not enthuse.
Alive from the dead. How does that sit?
The empty tomb, the witnesses with stubborn clues.
Good God, how we have buried it.
Euaggelion is gospel Greek for news that's glad of print.
The word extends a wounded hand, eager for my assent.
A mere micro second we've had breath to be
among the sunsets and seas. The planet’s
small. It’s only what we cannot keep, we have
to lose and by that needle's eye be taken through
the tale that tumbles death and birth. New birth
to shed the pride that outs me in the cold.
Is there a place this Easter hope to hold?