When in the morning I awoke,
the silent dread within me spoke.
The rock had rolled, the tomb ajar,
the corpse already wandered far.
Where has he gone, my inner guide,
that little voice fixed by my side?
When I was young, I did believe,
that God’s own son for me did grieve.
He died for me, I had been told,
so that my days I may live bold.
He died in pain, then rose above,
that pain turned into magic love.
And magical my days did seem,
but now those days appear as dreams.
For here I stand, an older man,
seeing shadows cross the land.
They took my faith, those shadows did,
and now my conscience, too, has hid.
What was to me the son of God,
was just a corpse, an earthen clod.
To my surprise this corpse had fled
and did a thing beyond the dead.
My inner voice the corpse did wrest
and placed within the shadow’s nest.
To find my voice then I must follow
the dead into the midst of shadow.
The truth that finds us on this earth,
the truth so hid from us at birth:
Our mortal nature is divine,
tested in darkness and in time.
