A Prayer For The Dying
The ash that from the earth did rise,
descended like rain on a hot summer morning
and covered my children.
Hidden from all eyes they breathed
their final farewell to me.
Hands reached for me in supplication
and I stood, helpless as the ash rained;
wordless as hands became still and cries dimmed.
I am mute.
I gaze at what was once a vision,
mark of all that cried out freedom.
The fist that cleaved the air was mine,
The primal scream that echoed
through the realm my voice.
I did not know
I did not know
that pain could claim my
body and say:
"I am master".
I did not know that anger
could reign in terror
inside of me:
urn relentlessly in every pore and sinew
until I cried: "release me!"
The grey has showered my face,
bathed my body in mourning raiment
for them,
my children who lie quiet
in the stillness of the night.
For now, Lord, I am down,
You have struck hard at my foundations,
You have tried me, tested your beloved child,
committed me to acknowledge Your power,
Your Love, Your infinite forgiveness
and I can feel Your hand on my shoulder,
I can hear Your voice in the darkness.
The rage dies and in its place is hope.
Be my guide, commit my children
where they lie silently in their grey
sepulchres,
to Your Home.
And I, dear God, in this terrible, tragic
circumstance, will shake this shroud of dust;
do vow today, in Your name,
to swear for all who died,
that I shall rise again.
Copyright 2001 Vanhunks
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