Martha


I saw Death drift across the fading light
And brush against a life, and coolly say:
“This is not mine; I only rend away
The veil of being from the forms of night

And cast them into ruin.” At the sight
My will before the deadly scythe gave way,
And hope within me dwindled, as the day
Gives up its warmth to evening’s bitter blight.

“Lord, were You here, my brother would be too!”
I fell, heart-shattered. But my Lord knelt down
To lift my face to His, that I might see

His own tears coursing sacred down. And through
The furling shadow of the Death around,
I felt the brilliance of the Life to be.

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