My Master of the vineyard, Monarch of my heart,
You rose from the gloomy recess of a rocky tomb,
as lilies gleamed in their presence of celebration,
and proclaiming bright angels told us of
Your triumph over the tomb,
You, Who will harvest Your own for the
wine press,
We worship You only,
Your living passion of love for us here on
the soil of earth,
sends our returning cherish of You
heavenward.
In the vestiges of us sinners' bygone tears,
is joy, exultant joy,
as You step forward from Death,
the Lion of Judah.
First class writing
M