I must believe that You rose from the dead
For if You didn’t, then what hope is there
To raise me from the gutter of despair
Out of the sod from which we all were bred?
Made in Your image, when we forfeited
Our innocence in Eden for a share
Of knowledge, we were suddenly aware
That we were naked, doomed to earn our bread.
I’ve spent too many years on Calvary
Watching great loves disintegrate in death,
Waiting to hear their final, labored breath
To see them rest unchained from agony.
Sweet Jesus, let some angel roll the stone
Out of my heart to see that we have won.
—Mary-Patrice Woehling
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