Poem April 6, 1987 Issue

Consolation

Mary Kephart

My friend,
you need no words,
no poems,
no tomes,
to be immortal.
You are so, by right:
by Mind conceived direct and indestructible,
by Soul imaged forth unique and wonderful,
by Love poured forth all warm and radiant as endless day,
by Life beamed forth in one gleaming ray.

No, it is I who need them,
words precise and clear.
The Word, the truth of God, reveals
a vision of that more definite sphere
than meandering contemplation
of past's bright-colored memories turned to shadow's hue,
than fruitless speculation
and questions grief cannot construe.

Who misses you?
What wants to be the heart of me,
yet cannot be.
Our hymns, truer poems, help me to see:
"... all earthly loss is gain; ...
Life is of God, whose radiance cannot wane."
Christian Science Hymnal, No. 174.

His Word is all.
It falls gently on the saddened heart,
like dewdrops on tired leaves.
"My grace is sufficient for thee."
II Cor. 12:9. I listen.
I, too, am free.

Mary Kephart

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