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Sunday’s Child

Sunday’s child:

I have no words,
Only tears.

You have never been one for grand gestures or speeches.

No poem, then.

It’s just that
Our tears,
Left to their own devices, will turn into a roaring river that sweeps us away.

don’t make such a fuss

And yet it is the same world.
The same world.

of course it is

The same world of butterflies enjoying the first flowers,
Of sheep (happy survivors of Easter) frolicking in fresh green meadows,
Of cats lying in the sun.

indeed

The same world, in which you went on to build your life.
Defiant. In spite of it all:
War, hunger, poverty, flight.
(Defiant. In spite of it all to the very end.)

who says that

The same world, in which you cared ceaselessly
Quietly
For others:
Children, grandchildren, cats.

— then all is well and leave it be

The same world.
The same God.

Boundless He is:
Boundless in agony.
Boundless in anguish.
Boundless in death.

A powerful God.

Therefore, oh God, we ask:
Be boundless, too,
In Your grace,
In Your solace,
In Your peace —

Our hope.

And then all is well.

— there you go

©  2002