Benediction for David’s Father

By Susan H. Aylworth

In parlored dark

we said a last goodnight

to clay-cold flesh

encased in temple white

and green,

Good-morrow to a friend

we all had cherished

to the end

of life.

Eyes like blackened jewels

in isinglass-thin,

wrinkle-layered skin

betrayed no rising miracle,

no modern Lazarus

to rob the grave

and save us

from our loss.

We knew the Christ,

believed the resurrection,

saw in David’s final supplication

hope for future union

in a kingdom-heaven

endless in its light and life

and truth.

Still,

faith in things not seen

would not cleanse from our hearts

the sting of pain,

make from age, youth,

or, from once-used dust,

make life again.