Moonlight soft and faint above the trees,
Casting a shadow of jagged curtains along the horizon.
The singing of birds riding sharp but muted on the cool spring air.
Resurrection Sunday dawn waits.
The details of this morning say it is true:
2,000 years before, the stone rolled away,
Angels in an empty tomb,
Our Lord and Savior mistaken for a gardener.
Today, in your name,
Broken spirits will file into churches,
To draw nearer to you.
Reborn, in your name and by your victory.
The world is made anew on Sunday morning,
As it always is.
Your message of grace as soft as morning haze
And your forgiveness as early morning birdsong.