Nice one, Roger
Easter Eggs
Dear Lord, the day of eggs is here.
We climb the hill that you ascended
So long ago in far Judea.
In suffering your life was ended,
Or so the weeping woman thought,
Mary, called Magdalene, the harlot,
Until the breakfast eggs she brought,
At your ascension blushed bright scarlet,
Those hard-boiled eggs she packed to eat
In wretchedness that mourning morning.
She sought to wash your dear dead feet
Evanished in a glorious dawning,
Those feet, those hands, those arms, those legs,
Your body parts entire and matchless.
So, children, roll your Easter eggs.
They symbolise new life, though hatchless.
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