Good Friday

I tread on the grass where the dew lies deep
While the air is clear and the world’s asleep;
I tramp on the verge of a dream that’s gone –
How I miss the Lord of the Morning!
Morning!
How can daylight dawn
Now I miss the Lord of the Morning?
 
I trod through the streets on the resting day,
Not a soul in sight, not a child at play;
I tramped on the ash of a fire once bright —
How I miss the Lord of the Morning!
Morning!
Let it still be night,
For I miss the Lord of the Morning!
 
I trod all the way from the town to the hill
And I found my way, but I lost my will;
I tramped up the stairs to a room turned strange –
How I miss the Lord of the Morning!
Morning!
Nothing can derange
How I miss the Lord of the Morning!
 
I trod out the hours on a wine-stained floor
Till the darkness warned of the day in store;
I tramped to a garden, engulfed in dread –
How I miss the Lord of the Morning!
Morning!
Life and love are dead
And I miss the Lord of the Morning.



Text: Lord of the morning by John Bell © Wild Goose Resource Group
Artwork by Mark Simms