art
Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
The Stone Was Rolled For Me
They pierced His hands, thinking they silenced grace. But Love doesn’t die— it waits. Three days of silence did not mean defeat. The tomb held His body, but never His peace. Because He rose, my shame is buried. Because He lives, my soul is carried. He wore the crown of thorns, so I could wear mercy. He bore the cross, so I’d never walk alone. I am the sinner He saw from the tree, still He whispered, “This one belongs to Me.” And now, when dawn breaks on Easter’s hush, I don’t just remember— I rejoice. The stone was rolled, not to free Him, but to show us— He’s already won.
By Carolina Borges2 years ago in Poets
