The Worst of Days
Donald P. Goodman III
For long the darkness, thick and brutal, clouds the world, a suffocating cover, stealing light and air; about all things excruciatingly it's curl'd, a monster, fangs a-drip, which made the world its lair. In vain our plaints and curses at the dark are hurl'd, but naught could for such hollow misery prepare: before, behind, and with us only sorrow lays, on this day of our passion; this, the worst of days.
For finally we had seen a glimmer of some hope, a speck of light which pierc'd the endless depths of night, a tiny fire far out at sea, through telescope, for which the rolling waves of blackness we could fight; a flashlight, known but darken'd, for which we could grope; a flame which could a dark and frigid world ignite; a hope beyond all hope did rise before our gaze, before this day of passion; this, the worst of days.
But even that one hope, which we could barely grasp, a hope beyond our knowing soon was taken down; long-beaten by the beasts with scourge and roughen'd rasp, mock'd brutally with misery and sorrow's crown; from wooden throne came tortur'd, suffocated gasp, and in its death did hope in endless darkness drown; the world its own one hope in hatred now betrays, on this day of its passion; this, the worst of days.
But still, this treason tore the curtain twain in two, and open'd wide the door which had been shut to light; the sun, more dark than ever, soon will shine anew; our hope, now dead, will put the cold and dark to flight. For tomb lasts not forever; our release is due, and promis'd by that hope with e'er unfailing might; that hope which shows the way beyond all other ways, on this day of its passion; this, the worst of days.