You dare to say he lives to fight
as days are shuffled through the deck?
Well, then, if space permits the white,
a gap appears to call and beck:

A pause, a lull, a drowning gasp,
as downward fierce the current pulls.
While truth stings like a biting asp
and recreation leers like skulls,

skulls scattered along a mossy path
like stones thrown down like dice,
like wildwood stumps, like wrath,
like tepid pools of pale green dace,

like likes of contrast stuck on hold,
whose bold designs seem frozen framed,
from the picture fates foretold,
portrayed by one who is not named,

whose seats are new in days of old,
whose vision moves still, crystal clear,
whose righteousness has been extolled,
whose far remove is always near,

whose depth cannot be fathomed yet,
yet readily would men drown trying,
whose grace, a peer has not been met,
whose face to meet we all are dying.

Yes, time stands still in a wake so sure,
all songs must mute, all praise go poor
and dour as an unwed bride behind a stuck door,
or miserable as damp on a moonless moor.

Flickering recognition meets dim surmise
as the calm pre-dawn dew greets sunrise,
and you look the ancient of days in the eyes.
Blink once, it’s twilight.  How the day flies.

In an age where drama rules the waves,
in an age where action trumps all else,
it is nice to know that Jesus still saves,
and his Passion play does not ring false.

The age may be gray, the time short,
some may despair about what to do.
But goals of the spirit still find support,
beyond skulls, dice, and Twin Peaks, too,
so when the son rises again, will you?