My eight year old feet were winging,
Barely touching the newly turned sod.
My exuberant heart was singing,
Spontaneous praises to God.
Back home with my loved ones at last!
Thank you, dear Father on high!
Those ravaging hours have past,
It's Easter! Jesus lives! !
And so do I! !
Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (It's Easter by Connie Yost )
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