The Bitter Blow

A poem of lament, loss and mystery

It is better to go to the house of mourning than to go to the house of feasting,
for this is the end of all mankind, and the living will lay it to heart.
- Ecclesiastes 7:2

When man must bid the bitter blow,
Now crushed and wrecked in darkness left,
Unwelcome friend and hither foe,
His love now lost from sudden theft.

What heart is wrought to such a force?
What mind endure that raging storm?
An axe laid at the root of joy,
A severed dream, a silent thorn.

There are no words we dare to breathe,
No comfort found in haste replies,
We cannot mend a shattered grief,
A mystery: the better why.

We must not rush to seek the light,
For in the shadow lingers truth;
To feel the heart and hands of Christ,
Requires that we ache and lose.

When man must bid the bitter blow,
And stumbles in a numbing pain,
He hurls himself upon the Rock,
Who counted death a loving gain.