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I remember, oh so well,
those Easters hushed and still,
in mem’ry of Golgotha –
three crosses on a hill,
where brutal Roman soldiers
Christ’s destiny fulfil.

No unessential work was done,
on streets a silent spell,
and folk with quiet reverence
obeyed the tolling bell,
or read again from Holy Writ
the things the Gospels tell.

I recall a joyous Sunday,
a rich symbolic treat,
a nest of eggs in chocolate
that looked too good to eat.
A carefree heart, remember too,
for which old age might crave,
and martial S.A.’s rousing hymn
of triumph o’er the grave.

 

T. C. Hudson

© T. C. Hudson.
This work may not be reproduced without prior permission of the author.

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