Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.
Matthew 5:4
My spirit used to tear when prowling death
would snatch good people in an evil time,
when suffering too cruel for any crime
was casually assigned. It stopped my breath,
surprised my heart when friendship soured to hate.
I sought the cause of folly’s bitterness,
and why we trade our best desires for less.
My conscience sounded like a screeching grate
when my mistakes would bruise another’s trust.
But I grew dull, the voice that now I hear
says, soldier on, don’t feel the pain so near,
cast misery away, or if you must
retain some burden, strap it on your back,
unseen behind you, keep your eyes ahead.
You must be strong, you must survive, it said.
I listened, and my heart was parched for lack
of tears, and silence brought a burning drought,
my soil was hard and brittle. Thirsty now,
my soul begins again. Lord, teach me how
to mourn, my weary frame is crying out,
grant me that too-neglected peace, to know
that it is safe to feel, to finally lay
the world’s loads down, for every winding way
and every battle borne, both high and low,
must find their meaning in my father’s ears,
in one embrace with all God’s friends on earth,
strange family bound by tougher ties than birth.
To mourn as one is blest, because our tears
are rain, as laughter is the sun, that feeds
the forest sprouted from the Spirit’s seeds.