Poetry

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Tell me. Where are the soothsayers?!
Where, the gory story tellers?
My God is alive and He is well
His story I will imbibe and tell.

I rise from the grave like He said
My spirit His word has heard
These dry bones must live again
His promise I rise to obtain.

I stretch to take the golden scepter
That will undo every wicked fetter.
I make entrance, in spite of the load
I dash in to make major in-road.

‘Loose him now, and let Him Go!’
Said God to the wicked foe.
‘Mess not with my anointed;
Set apart for the Day appointed.’

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