It’s Sarah’s old-bone incredulity
wrecked by the coos of borne-out prophecy.
It’s Jacob learning that his son’s not dead,
the brothers scrubbed of blood they long thought shed.
It’s Miriam’s, Deborah’s, Hannah’s canticles,
delivered from the haughty’s manacles.
It’s David writhing, leaping for the ark,
ignited by the spirit’s purple spark.
It’s Mary’s yes, Elizabeth’s embrace,
the Holy Family’s travel-weary grace.
It’s Jesus changing water into wine,
festivity prolonged his first great sign.
It’s faithful men who ripped the roof apart
so that their friend could rise with swelling heart.
It’s Peter sprinting toward the vacant tomb
after betrayal, away from Adam’s doom.
—Steven Knepper
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