The Morning

Death asleep
was soon disturbed
amidst his gloomy dreams
by a brilliant,
flashing hand
afire with golden beams. 

It was the voice
of Him who rose
upon a Sunday morn
that voiced the shout
of eschaton
and blew the waking horn.

Arise! he said.
Arise! Make haste!
Your slumber has expired.
Your fortune
now awaits you, Fiend,
a future writ in fire.

The Death-ghost
shook his cobweb locks
and blinked his heavy eyes,
stood and lumbered
toward the door
with deep and ancient sighs.

Through the portal
he advanced,
obeying Christ's demand.
He disappeared
and so released
the captive, spell-bound band.

Then death was gone,
asleep no more, 
consumed in waking fire.
And resurrected saints
they sang
God's praise, a morning choir!