Before the dawn, before the stone was rolled,
Love wrote a story the prophets foretold.
Not with ink, but with crimson red,
He bore the cross, where great mercy bled.
The King of Heaven, clothed in grace,
Chose the thorns, took my place.
Each lash, each nail, each cry in pain—
A ransom paid, our eternal gain.
Oh, how the sky grew dark that day,
As Light gave in, then stole death’s sway.
The earth did shake, the curtain tore,
And silence sang of what He bore.
But the third morning came, and so did He,
Not bound by tomb, but risen free.
The grave lies shattered, hope restored,
He is our Savior, Christ the Lord.
What selfless love is this, to know my name,
To call me child, to bear my shame?
The dark world can’t hold such depth, such fire—
It trembles at His great desire.
For I am seen, and I am known,
Not left to wander lost, alone.
The cross, the nails, the empty tomb—
They speak of joy that overcomes the gloom.
So yes, today, my soul will sing,
Of blood that washed, of my risen King.
Not just today, but every breath,
Is marked by precious life that conquered death.
And in His light, I find my way,
Through shadowed night and breaking day.
The world may dim, but I will see—
The Risen One lives now in me
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Letters From the Edge 