They tiptoe, dance, and spin
bright sun across my tired yard,
still dressed in her old tattered
coat of winter’s shadowed cold.
Wee flowerets sing to me their
yellow song of rising life;
shout golden hallelujahs,
he is risen; he is risen indeed;
trumpet bold the tidings,
shake the air, pierce through my
fears; spill out their earthy psalm of
wonder, jubilation at the mystery of
life beyond the winter’s ice, of life
beyond the stone cold mask
of every sullen death.