Resurrection
By Janice Liddell
After 2,628,000 minutes of
carrying his cross through the
hell of his own making,
he came to the end of his sordid self.
Reached a hand upward,
ran fingers around the
light-filled newness
that had always been
at the rim of him.
He writhed through the haze--
through the crack
of his world and into the sun
where he stood upright.
His feeble steps ordered--
guided by ancient and new ancestors,
the fathom father tall among them.
Blinding cataracts
melted from his sightless eyes
and splashed to where the flowers grew.
Never had he seen this vibrancy
of his scattered seeds.
Now he
walks and works
plays and prays
and on Sundays
extracts wordz of
wyzdom from the Highest Source.
Today a black man lives
He Lives
He Lives
By Janice Liddell
After 2,628,000 minutes of
carrying his cross through the
hell of his own making,
he came to the end of his sordid self.
Reached a hand upward,
ran fingers around the
light-filled newness
that had always been
at the rim of him.
He writhed through the haze--
through the crack
of his world and into the sun
where he stood upright.
His feeble steps ordered--
guided by ancient and new ancestors,
the fathom father tall among them.
Blinding cataracts
melted from his sightless eyes
and splashed to where the flowers grew.
Never had he seen this vibrancy
of his scattered seeds.
Now he
walks and works
plays and prays
and on Sundays
extracts wordz of
wyzdom from the Highest Source.
Today a black man lives
He Lives
He Lives
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