Holy Saturday is here.
The quietest day of the year.
The feel of the tomb presses near.
All whom we treasure most dear
tremble in solemn fear,
waiting uncertain, near tears,
for all to be made clear.
Holy Saturday is here.
The quietest day of the year.
The feel of the tomb presses near.
All whom we treasure most dear
tremble in solemn fear,
waiting uncertain, near tears,
for all to be made clear.
Filed under POETRY
annarino writes 