Of Stories

Of stories told in ages past
Of stories old and new
Survive the shifting sands of time
There are but only few

And of these few, these precious few
There is one precious prize
That shows itself to smaller men
Not rich, not good, not wise

And of these saints the chosen few
That know the story well
Know well the God enthroned above
Who dove right down to hell

That God whom angels hide their face
From glory, light and awe
Would take on plain appearance
Born a peasant nothing more

And though deserving crowns of gold
Would take the crown of thorns
And though deserving songs of praise
Would take the sinner's scorns

That God of endless peace and love
Would suffer unto death
That God who spun the galaxies
Would take a final breath

But look! behold the empty tomb
A wonder can it be?
"He isn't here" the angel said
Now haste to Galilee

Now in His rising from the dead
We all can come and share
Unburden guilt and sin and fear
And anger, angst and care

His triumph over world and flesh
Gives us a cause to sing
And on this crimson thread of grace
From earth to heaven swing