Easter Sunday

Bleeding, beating, I am breathing, thinking,
Seeing, believing that I am perceiving
The river and fishes, the green of the spring,
The motions of wind on the leaves, and the singing
Of birds in their chorus and nature alive,
Bustling and rushing to bring in new life.
This early hour of April IS Spring,
And a day I am able in mind to believe,
With ears to be hearing a world I conceive
To be moving toward something perpetuating
Toward some certain purpose, as this path through the wood
Through which I go walking a rambled path down
Into the mountain with natural sounds
Never heard, played to me, not one note in the symphony,
Never has God so conducted for me
That my soul and my heart and my sight and my feet
Be harmonizing in time on His woodland street.
So a part, so engrossed, so alive, so verbose
So I sang and the rain came, soaked me a toast.
Off a large leaf I drank, and I held my breath
And let it all out, thanking God for this test
Of mind firing, heart beating, air in my chest
And volition, sweet human seat of my own disposition
Then I, the me, in my own autonomy yeilded up humbley contritant
And danced muddy, and drunk
Full in the woodland spirit, I sunk
To my knees and I wept for ability
To stay in the scene, or in truth to say anything affirming,
Like You are the river rushing my stream
You are wind in my ears and the scream
Of wildcats, the songs of the birds
The mountain, the hill, all of my woods
In chorus...

But I couldn't.