Morte

There is a graveyard near here;

            a raw wound in the flesh of my soul

only lately covered over

            by hands more loving than mine.

Those hands which, even now,

            press down the earth with care

have been carefully preparing me

            and lovingly protecting me.

When the death-blow came

            they were the only hands

in which I could lay the corpse

            of a broken thing once lovely.

He took from me that which was broken

            and wept many tears over it.

With love in his eyes, and great care

            He buried it where you see.

When the pain made me cry out

            His were the hands

that stroked my tear-stained face.

            I stand now in dew-wet grass

my eyes filled with a death which,

            though long foreseen,

is not mourned less for the knowing.

            For a moment I imagine that I am alone

with ghosts and spirits and rain.

            My hands are empty. I have no token;

I am desolated in this place.

            But then I see His hands

reach down to lay something

            on the place where I have died.

Roses of many shades, perfectly formed

            and sweet with fragrance

Perfume the air over this grave.

            The Comforter, once again,

offering me the great exchange;

            Life for death, the oil of gladness

in the place of mourning, roses for dry bones,

            Himself for lesser lovers.

To die so all my days

            Is naught but that for which I seek.

I rejoice in the graveyard of my soul.

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