Funeral Poems for a Mother

Her hands knew flour and thread and prayer,

the cool of cloth against a fever,

the weight of a child carried far —

she was a giver, not a leaver.

Though now those hands are still and folded,

their work goes on in all she made:

in us, in how we hold each other,

in every kindness she displayed.

We are her harvest, late and early;

we are the words she did not waste.

And when we love the way she loved us,

we set her table, keep her grace.

Mama, go well along the road

that we cannot yet walk with you;

you carried us when we were small —

now let the heavens carry you.

You taught us how to share a loaf,

to greet a stranger, mend a tear,

to stand up straight and speak the truth,

and hold the frightened ones near.

We will not say that you are gone

while every lesson still remains.

Go well, go gently, rest at last;

love stays behind, and love sustains.

She planted more than seeds in soil —

she planted patience, planted care,

and watched us grow toward the light

with all the tending she could spare.

Now autumn comes, and she has gone

the way of every faithful thing,

but gardens keep their gardeners:

we bloom because she taught us spring.

You sang me soft when I was small

and frightened of the dark;

tonight I sing the song back home,

a small and steady spark.

Sleep now, the way you bid me sleep,

your work and worry through;

the One who held you all your life

will keep on holding you.

Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;

The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide;

When other helpers fail and comforts flee,

Help of the helpless, O abide with me.

I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless;

Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness.

Where is death's sting? Where, grave, thy victory?

I triumph still, if Thou abide with me.

Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes;

Shine through the gloom, and point me to the skies;

Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee;

In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me.

Count not the years she lived,

but count the lives she touched —

the ones she fed, forgave, and raised,

the ones she loved so much.

Her mark is not on marble;

it is written in our days,

in how we treat the smallest one,

in all our quiet ways.

So lay her down in gentleness;

she earned her length of rest.

Of all the names the world may give,

we knew her name the best.