The night of fear has mourned away its sway
over chanticleer morning, who rises
today crowing through tomb-slit made splay
to the lilting elegy of a marian crisis.
Everything became more ordinary,
that is, out of the rim of an empty catacomb
rang a theme around which all and sundry
could sing songs in a home not their home:
"Born of our bone, fleshed in our flesh, thrust
through You have borne us, who are called Yours,
invited to feast upon heavenly stores,
Your bread and wine given for the dust of our dust.
Mourning is broken, death is a token paid
since love now has spoken, we are no longer afraid."
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