Beneath a joyless, gloomy moon,
The graveyard came alive with sound
As crickets played a ghostly tune
Among the tombstones all around.
A luminous and lacy mist
Then settled down upon the ground,
Where in the dark, its vapors kissed
The marble markers that abound.
It's here the dead and buried lay
With nothing of themselves to show,
Just lifeless bones beneath the clay
And nowhere else for them to go.
Oh sin had also made us dead,
Transgressors to our very core;
The wrath of God upon our head
Where dead is dead and nothing more.
But even after all we've done
God showed us His great brilliancy
And spread His love on everyone
With a showering of mercy
And by God's grace He seated us
Beside our Savior and our King,
Who rose from death victorious
So now, oh grave, where is your sting?
“What doth it profit, my brethren,
though a man say he hath faith,
and have not works? can faith save him?”
This poem won first place for the September 2016 poetry contest