Heaven's High Lungs: A Poem on the Valley of Dry Bones

In a valley gorged on dead men's bones,
With femurs and skulls twixt sticks and stones,
A graveyard prophet with Spirit breath
Exhaled a sermon that buried death.
He preached to the bones, strewn on the ground,
And crept to his ears a rattling sound.
Dismembered corpses earless to hear
Heard their living Creator draw near.
Socket to socket the bones re-wed,
Flesh-packed and skin-wrapped from sole to head.
He preached to the winds, “Breathe on these slain!”
From heaven's high lungs, life they obtained.
They stood on their feet, the Father's host,
Alive in the Son and Holy Ghost.
When hopes grow brittle and life's a grave,
The Lord of heaven's alive to save.

 


*For another reflection on Ezekiel's famous vision, read "Is There Any Hope for Me? Can These Bones Live?"
*You can read more of my poetry in my book, The Infant Priest: Hymns and Poems, available at Amazon.