I find myself asking, what does it mean?
The ritual celebration of this strange thing unseen
Mysterious event, in history shrouded
Somehow in popular imagination now clouded
Those beatific images, glowing and pure
Three painted crosses, pristine grave, I’m not sure
Why, for such a frail thing, Christians give thanks
In a world marred by guns, and brutality, and tanks
What good’s ‘resurrection’ in the grime and the mud
In a bomb-blighted landscape, killing fields of blood
Till we remember that Jesus, before the faint-dawning light
Fell foul as well of raw political might
He too was cornered and ground down and crushed
His goodness they tried hard to drown out and hush
And yet Easter morning made it clear, made it plain
A slow burning power that couldn’t be contained
That burst every barrier, broke through every wall
Filled hearts with joy and made timid men tall
And I trust that in war zones, and each human heart
This power still brings healing, and hope, a new start

Broadcast on BBC Radio Leeds & Premier Christian Radio