Mary's TreasureПримерок

Grief Entombed

As I walk to the tomb, I regret all the things

That I had thought treasures, such pain they now bring.

I clutch my gray stone once more shrouded in doubt

What now of the prophesies I’d learned about?

The nails I had carried his hands stretched out wide

Like pottery, body crushed, undignified.

My son drank harsh herbs lifted by hyssop pole.

Is Yahweh who parted seas not in control?

The white swatch of swaddling, just a small scrap

Now mirrors his grave clothes I tenderly wrap.

My hay strand recalls that God works all for good

I want to believe but don’t see how He could.