by Joe Tessitore

Behind the stone
of timeless wait
He rose alone
despite its weight
and strode from darkness
into light;
Eternal Day
dispelling night.


Like Christ and Lilies

by James A. Tweedie

To higher zeniths doth the sun aspire
_As winter wanes and waxing spring ascends.
_While from each branch and limb the birds conspire
_To celebrate as night’s dark season ends.
The leaf-sprung harbinger of new life cries,
_“Let all that lives join Nature’s choir!”
_As tulip, daffodil, and crocus rise
_To sing with greenwood flute and meadowed lyre.
Like as a garden raised from desert sands,
_The reborn Earth, now clothed in bud and blade,
_Shall lift its voice and trees shall clap their hands
_Rejoicing in all that the Lord has made.
And God has shown that even from a tomb,
Like Christ and lilies, we shall also bloom.



On an Easter Morn

by Jeffrey Kemper

A placid breeze salutes the morning sun
As leaves are dancing with enchanted glee
Upon the playing bloom and swaying tree,
Where rippling waters never-ending run.

The flying fowl are frolicking above
On boughs adrift in drafts at heaven’s gate.
Their ceaseless chants and carols celebrate
The renaissance when creatures fall in love.

An earthly swell irrupts in turbulence;
The ground is rollicking with rhythmic ring;
Enticing mantras bid the bard to sing
Of treasures new and charms without pretense.

I fall afoul of my own tedium
For blissful visits to this spectacle;
Into this florid fête, a fanciful
Monotony of madding medium

That beckons me incessantly away
As winter’s clutch is just a memory!
And I am strangely donned an honoree
At this, the wild and whimsical cache

Of myriad enchantments to enjoy
From firmament to sky to earth below
To deep within my spirit’s overflow
Of youthful yearning, diffident and coy.

One transcendental treasure, this I prize
Beyond my blissful soul’s supreme delights:
A cosmic restoration in the heights
Eclipsing beauty’s beauty, death’s demise!




by Rod Walford

The shadow of the Cross before us stands
Drenched with the ebbing life-blood of our King
We solemnly behold His outstretched hands
For many sons to glory they shall bring.

We scarce can comprehend His fading prayer
His breath, upon our vain and selfish face
As love and sorrow flowing on us there
Anoint us with His sweet amazing grace

Through Him our wilted spirit is renewed
And we are clothed with robes of righteousness
Our vain, rebellious nature is subdued
As He forgives our wretched sinfulness.

No thanks that we could offer would suffice
Nor any gift of measure could we bring
As humbly we accept His sacrifice
Redemption! Through the shed blood of our King.




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13 Responses

  1. Julian D. Woodruff

    Re Kemper’s On Easter Morn, II.1:

    Woe! Neither foul nor fair are frolicking,
    Whether in flight or hopping on the ground.
    They’re absent from our lives and haunts this spring.
    Be glad that is not true of Heaven’s Hound!

    • Jeff Kemper

      Julian, sadly, the first three lines of your quatrain are true and happily is the final line true as well. As you might guess, I wrote my poem of an Easter morning prior to this year’s! How long must this madness persist?

  2. George Wertman

    An Easter Story About Resurrection Day
    by George Wertman 1992

    (Easter [a paschal feast, originally a pagan
    festival in honor of the Goddess of Spring,
    Eastre, held in April.]
    Webster’s 1955 New Twentieth Century
    Dictionary, Unabridged, Second Edition)

    We get up early, fix our hair .
    Our eyes compare the clothes we wear.
    Vanity the world enhances,
    His skin was torn, clothes sold for chances.

    Brand new outfits, a nice clean car ,
    We feel like kings and queens;
    Fancy nutty cookies,
    Spicy jelly beans.

    Pecan nougat, coconut,
    Peanut butter creams,
    Sugar coated pastel peeps,
    A basket full of dreams.

    Multi-colored chicken eggs,
    Happy morning scenes,
    Hollow chocolate crosses;
    Do we know what all this means?

    Why not celebrate you say,
    In such a festive, happy way?
    The gifts we give, the things we do,
    The birth of spring, the things so new?

    Eastre is the ‘goddess’ ,
    Of the Festival of Spring,
    Diverting our attention,
    To a fake and empty thing.

    Baskets, birds and bunnies,
    They make our children beg.
    The Resurrection of my Lord,
    Is more important than an egg.

    The gifts we get, cannot compare,
    To perfect love, precious, rare.
    The gifts we give, they can’t mean much,
    Unless our hearts, His hand has touched.

    A perfect human sacrifice,
    Is why this day is real.
    A truth that can get buried,
    In a tasty easter meal.

    We lose the reason for the day,
    When it’s time to carve the ham.
    Today we can choose victory!
    That’s why God bled the Lamb.

    We’ve been searching for an answer,
    Since the time of mankind’s fall.
    The price is paid, we’ve all been bought!
    But we must believe it all.

    Our loving God is just,
    Payment after sin a must.
    Christ died, debt paid, you’re free,
    Through faith we is how we trust.

    When given the decision,
    We hide behind our pride.
    Humility, the door will open,
    To let the truth inside.

    His hand He holds from the unrighteous,
    Your prayers are vain, don’t bother.
    Unless you ask to be His child,
    You’ve no right to call Him Father.

    By choosing not to serve Him,
    We choose a lord called ‘me’.
    Then things of God seem foolish.
    And many will not see.

    The things we do to earn His love,
    Are rags we wave around.
    That work is filthy in His sight.
    His Grace will not be found.

    Those who live Wrong will be many,
    For the way to destruction is wide.
    Narrow the way which leads to life,
    Few will find it, there’s no place to hide.

    Some pray for help to all the others,
    Not through the One who can.
    The one and only Mediator,
    Between our God and man.

    The tools you use, He gave you,
    Your mind, your mouth, your tongue.
    It’s amazing He still loves you,
    As you deny His son.

    Surrender to His finished work,
    Then your life eternal starts,
    When through the Spirit you receive Him,
    God looks into our hearts.

    Only when we let Him,
    Drive us gently to our knees.
    Trusting and obeying
    Can we begin to please.

    There’s nothing you or I can do,
    We only need believe.
    Unless we give up trying,
    His gift we can’t receive.

    Sacrifices now mean nothing,
    And repetitions vain.
    There was One sacrifice for sins,
    We can’t repeat His pain .

    ‘Work your way to heaven’ .
    And so we try and try.
    The words of men deceive us
    With a clever, vicious lie.

    False religion and tradition,
    These things are man made history.
    I live in Him, He lives in me,
    Therein lies the mystery.

    Our bodies die and rot away,
    There is no need to fear It.
    The gift of life is ours to keep,
    When we receive His Spirit.

    Holy blood left holy stains,
    Upon a cross shaped alter.
    His saving grace is always there,
    His promise cannot falter.

    Sinless, beaten, mocked and spit on,
    A laugh for the Roman guard.
    Triumph over torment,
    His life could not be barred.

    He took our sin and gave himself,
    To death. with fingers strong and cold.
    Eternal darkness strained to hold Him,
    His power broke it’s hold!

    This poem may stir feelings,
    What it says and how it looks.
    Good News is what these words proclaim,
    Look in God’s Book of Books.

    This day will mean so little,
    To those who make a fuss,
    Today is day is God’s reminder,
    Of what He did for us.

    How dare the customs of this world,
    Wash out this JOYOUS day!
    Believe He died to take your place,
    Do not in darkness stay!

    Receive Him now, new life He gives.
    There is no other way!
    God offers you His life through Christ.
    So now what do you say? So now what do you say

    • C.B. Anderson

      I say, George, “Hold! Enough!” I got the point after the first couple of stanzas. A bit of compression would have gone a long way. The greatest story ever told does not have to be longest story ever told.

      • George Wertman

        Narrative. Oldest form.
        And the Salvation story is eternal.
        You probably understood the underlying theme.
        The bunny needs his own day.
        Thank you for reading.
        Live Victoriously!

      • Pamela

        Wow I totally disagree ! This is a story about Resurrection Day ! George hits all the points about the gospel , was written while sitting in a pagan church , and led by the Holy Spirit by the emptiness around him . This poem has touched thousands of people including Chuck Swindoll who had it read at his Easter Sunday Sunrise Service in LA . Deep thinkers and Christians who delve DEEPLY into God’s Word find a teaching treasure in this Easter story in poetic form . Never has it been criticized. How can you criticize the truths of Scripture ??

      • Pamela

        So rude to a poem that people could get saved to ! You must have a shallow faith not to see the abundant truth in this story poem !

      • Pamela

        Traditions of men is not true religion before God . There is a Biblical religion spoken of by God in Scripture then there is traditions of men that Jesus denounces and Paul does too in the Epistles. When Catholics are asked which do you choose : traditions of the church or the Scriptures? They always say the traditions of the church are above the Scriptures. Men in Catholic Seminaries do not open the BIBLE until the 6th year of seminary. Instead they are taught the transitions of the church first , indoctrinating their minds with traditions instead of Scriptre . Paul warns us over and over again against this in the Epistles … he calls them
        “ the traditions of men” And that was all nailed to the cross when Christ was crucified .

  3. Margaret Coats

    Thank you, gentlemen all, for four poems worthy of the day. Joe, your brief but profound verses make a fine introduction to the group, drawing the reader to consider all of them. I love the expression “timeless wait,” and the visual length of the non-rhyming “darkness,” which sticks out because it does not fit! Rod, a bold title derived from the poem itself, making a point (an exclamation point!) on the theme of atoning sacrifice, most uncomfortable to fashionable theologians.

    • Rod Walford

      Thank you Margaret – I can’t say I know any “fashionable” theologians but if I did I would find their discomfort puzzling – and would have to ask which Bible they’d been reading!


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