Decaying flesh, rotting in dark stale air
That hasn’t touched the sun for many years;
A cold, damp, crawly feeling on my skin;
My spine convulses with the sick sensation
That death surrounds me, molds my very soul.
Clammy marble walls give me no comfort.
Dress up the outside if you will; paint it,
Festoon the walls with ornamentation,
Call in trendy architects – it’s still a tomb
And death still fills its bowels with corruption.
Jesus condemned the Pharisees as such;
He called them whitewashed tombs – pretty outside
But filled with dead men’s bones; hypocrisy
And evil desires dressed in righteous robes.
They chose to remain in their tombs. But now
At Easter, Jesus rolls our stones away,
Rolls up His sleeves, and empties out our tombs –
A true spring cleaning, if we are willing.