If winter is a house then summer is a window in the bedroom of that house. Sorrow is a river behind the house and happiness is the name
of a fish who swims downstream. The unborn child who plays in the fragrant garden is named Mavis: her red hair is made of future and her sleek feet
are wet with dreams. The cat who naps in the bedroom has his paws in the sun of summer and his tail in the moonlight of change. You and I
spend years walking up and down the dusty stairs of the house. Sometimes we stand in the bedroom and the cat walks towards us like a message.
Sometimes we pick dandelions from the garden and watch the white heads blow open in our hands. We are learning to fish in the river
of sorrow; we are undressing for a swim. ~Faith Shearin, “The Name of a Fish” from The Owl Question
We can be swallowed by our sorrow, flowing past our feet, threatening to sweep us away. Yet we might pull off our shoes and wade right in looking for what happiness we might catch, or simply watch it swim by, taking comfort in knowing it still swirls around us.
It is possible to feel sadness and to rejoice all at once, to hold infinity gently in the palm of my hand, ready to disperse from a casual breeze or intentional breath.
This sacrifice of One is only the beginning. A Breath started it all and ends it all.
How can it be when nothing is left, everything is gained?
To see a World in a Grain of Sand And a Heaven in a Wild Flower, Hold Infinity in the Palm of your Hand, and Eternity in an Hour.
When the Soul Slept in Beams of Light God Appears & God is Light To those poor Souls who dwell in Night But does a Human Form Display To those who Dwell in Realms of day ~William Blake from “Auguries of Innocence”
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When Jesus wept, the falling tear in mercy flowed beyond all bound; when Jesus groaned, a trembling fear seized all the guilty world around. ~William Billings
And when he drew near and saw the city, he wept over it, saying, “Would that you, even you, had known on this day the things that make for peace! But now they are hidden from your eyes. ~Luke 19:41-42
Facing this week of remembrance, knowing that right now thousands are displaced by war, some in graves, some grieving their losses, some wondering what comes next.
On this journey, we face our own fears of vulnerability and mortality, a week where thorns overwhelm the emerging blossoms~~
To acknowledge what He did this week long ago, to conquer the shroud and the stone, to defy death, makes all the difference for us here and now.
Indeed Jesus wept and groaned for us.
To be known for who we are by a God who weeps for us and groans with pain we caused: we can know no greater love.
This week ends our living for self, only to die, and begins our dying to self, in order to live.
This year’s Lenten theme for Barnstorming is a daily selection from songs and hymns about Christ’s profound sacrifice on our behalf.
If we remain silent about Him, the stones themselves will shout out and start to sing (Luke 19:40).
In His name, may we sing…
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Sing to the God who turns our sighs into a song. Sing to the One who mends our broken hearts with music. Sing to the One who fills our empty hearts with love. Sing to the One who gives us light to step into the darkest night. Sing to the God who turns our sighs into a song. ~Susan Boersma
Sixty-seven years, oh Lord, to look at the clouds, the trees in deep, moist summer,
daisies and morning glories opening every morning
their small, ecstatic faces— Or maybe I should just say
how I wish I had a voice like the meadowlark’s,
sweet, clear, and reliably slurring all day long
from the fencepost, or the long grass where it lives
in a tiny but adequate grass hut beside the mullein and the everlasting,
the faint-pink roses that have never been improved, but come to bud
then open like little soft sighs under the meadowlark’s whistle, its breath-praise,
Each day opens to new possibility with a sigh, a breath and thankfulness-
once in awhile tears, sometimes heartbreak, and flat out fear of what comes next.
Even so, through it all I sing a song of praise, an alleluia that reminds me why I am and who I live for.
All is well, it is well with my soul.
This year’s Lenten theme for Barnstorming is a daily selection from songs and hymns about Christ’s profound sacrifice on our behalf.
If we remain silent about Him, the stones themselves will shout out and start to sing (Luke 19:40).
In His name, may we sing…
When time sweeps yesterday away, It leaves behind an empty heart, Weeping through the night so dark and long. When words are lost among the tears, When sadness steals another day, God hears our cries and turns our sighs into a song.
Sing to the One who mends our broken hearts with music. Sing to the One who fills our empty hearts with love. Sing to the One who gives us light to step into the darkest night. Sing to the God who turns our sighs into a song.
From heaven falls a mercy sweet, The time for weeping now is gone; God hears our sighs and gives us His eternal song. Sing to the One who mends our broken hearts with music. Sing to the One who fills our empty hearts with love.
Translation: Lord, protect Ukraine. Give us strength, faith, and hope, our Father. Amen
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Weary traveler Beat down from the storms that you have weathered Feels like this road just might go on forever Carry on ~Jordan St. Cyr
There are so many who are weary right now: -refugees who have walked for miles to reach safety, with no idea where to go next. -hopeful immigrants who seek a new life and a new start, but bogged down in government process and paperwork -those who are struggling to stay alive in the midst of debilitating illness, both physical and mental -those who have given of themselves to care for those who struggle -those who have lived many years and now feel ready to be taken home, yet wake again to a new day -those whose faith feels beaten down by the loss of community and congregational consolation during two years of pandemic anger and disagreement -those who mourn deeply for those they have lost.
God knows our grief. God knows our weary bodies and minds need rest and restoration. God knows the struggle as He too walked this weary road, too often alone.
Yet He carried on then and carries on today and will be there alongside us tomorrow.
Carry on. Someday we will make it home.
This year’s Lenten theme for Barnstorming is a daily selection from songs and hymns about Christ’s profound sacrifice on our behalf.
If we remain silent about Him, the stones themselves will shout out and start to sing (Luke 19:40).
In His name, may we sing…
Weary traveler Beat down from the storms that you have weathered Feels like this road just might go on forever Carry on
You keep on giving But every day this world just keeps on taking Your tired heart is on the edge of breaking Carry on
Weary traveler, restless soul You were never meant to walk this road alone It’ll all be worth it so just hold on
Weary traveler You won’t be weary long No more searching
Heaven’s healing’s gonna find where all the hurt is When Jesus calls we’ll lay down all our heavy burdens Carry on Someday soon we’re gonna make it home
Neon lights flickering Outside the cafe Ice on the windshield Stars in a black sea On a winter road Flurries of snow I’m ready to go
Past farmhouse and pasture Our voices together Rise to the drumming Of big-rigs and trailers Long hours to daylight A rumbling bus Our bed and our board
Heavenly Father Remember the traveler Bring us safely home Heavenly Father Remember the traveler Bring us safely home Safely home
In the towns off this highway The people are kind They welcome us in I sing in their church halls Old hymns and prayer songs With lifted hearts We rejoice in the Lord
I long for my family And friends to remind me Of where I have been And where I am going And where I come from
Heavenly Father Remember the traveler Bring us safely home Heavenly Father Remember the traveler Bring us safely home Safely home
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For you have delivered me from death and my feet from stumbling, that I may walk before God in the light of life.Psalm 56:13
God alone can deliver a soul from its death, lift a life from a wasteland of need. God alone can replenish with blessings untold until into His light we are freed we are freed. ~Susan Boersma from “Father of Light“
Wait, for now. Distrust everything, if you have to. But trust the hours. Haven’t they carried you everywhere, up to now? Personal events will become interesting again. Hair will become interesting. Pain will become interesting. Buds that open out of season will become lovely again. Second-hand gloves will become lovely again, their memories are what give them the need for other hands. And the desolation of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness carved out of such tiny beings as we are asks to be filled; the need for the new love is faithfulness to the old.
Wait. Don’t go too early. You’re tired. But everyone’s tired. But no one is tired enough. Only wait a while and listen. Music of hair, Music of pain, music of looms weaving all our loves again. Be there to hear it, it will be the only time, most of all to hear, the flute of your whole existence, rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion. ~Galway Kinnell “Wait”from A New Selected Poems
If everyone abandons you and even drives you away by force, then when you are left alone fall on the earth and kiss it, water it with your tears, and it will bring forth fruit even though no one has seen or heard you in your solitude. Believe to the end, even if all people went astray and you were left the only one faithful; bring your offering even then and praise God in your loneliness. ~Fyodor Dostoyevsky from The Brothers Karamazov
Suicide rates of teenagers in the United States increased well over 30% since 2009. Their voices echo loudly:
“It would be easier if I were dead” “No one cares if I live or die” “The world would be better off without me” “It’s too painful to continue” “I’m not worthy to be here” “It is my right and no one can stop me”
Let us protect our holiness as created in the image of God even though weak and frail and prone to helpless hopelessness. We will be restored. In His Light, He will not let us stumble and fall.
Dear ones, please wait a little longer, only a little longer: don’t go too early – your bud will soon bloom in His Light.
This year’s Lenten theme for Barnstorming is a daily selection from songs and hymns about Christ’s profound sacrifice on our behalf.
If we remain silent about Him, the stones themselves will shout out and start to sing (Luke 19:40).
In His name, may we sing…
From the comments on this video: Written by Susan Boersma and based loosely on Psalm 56, this piece was commissioned by the Sanctuary Choir of Third Presbyterian Church in Richmond, Virginia, in memory of Jonathan Richard White, the son of its music director John Stone White. Jonathan was a teenager who struggled with long-term depression and who, despite his persistent faith in God, in the end took his own life. In the aftermath of this tragedy, Jonathan’s family came to more deeply appreciate the magnitude of his struggle, as witnessed by what he wrote in his journal and Bible, and they noted that he returned frequently to the Psalms to find comfort in his distress. In contrast to the sadness surrounding this young man’s death, Craig Courtney’s writing in this piece is uniformly strong and triumphant. “Father of Light” opens with a vocal solo—indicative perhaps of a personal statement of faith—expressing confidence in God’s leading and protection. This solo is followed by unison singing in the lower voices which echoes the sentiments of the soloist. As the piece progresses, more parts are added and the harmonies become richer, until at last the music moves into a higher key, the piano drops out, and all the voices reiterate the words of the opening solo at a loud dynamic. A final entry of the soloist brings this work to its close and reminds the listener that God is sovereign in all things—even great suffering.
All praise to the name of the Father of Light One Who listens and hears when I call Ev’ry step He ordains, I shall walk without fear in His light I’ll not stumble or fall In His light I’ll not stumble or fall
What can mortal man do while I’m safe in His hand? He is God on His word I rely in the midst of my fear I will trust in His name for I know He will hear when I cry He knows all of my feelings, the depths of despair all the limits my soul can endure. I will trust in His name, I have nothing to lose, for in Him all my hopes are secure.
All praise to the name of the Father of Light One Who listens and hears when I call Ev’ry step He ordains, I shall walk without fear In His light I’ll not stumble or fall In His light I’ll not stumble or fall
God alone can deliver a soul from its death, lift a life from a wasteland of need. God alone can replenish with blessings untold until into His light we are freed we are freed.
All praise to the name of the Father of Light One Who listens and hears when I call Ev’ry step He ordains, I shall walk without fear In His light I’ll not stumble or fall In His light I’ll not stumble or fall Ev’ry step He ordains, I shall walk without fear In His light I’ll not stumble or fall
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May you see God’s light on the path ahead when the road you walk is dark. May you always hear even in your hour of sorrow, the gentle singing of the lark. When times are hard may hardness never turn your heart to stone. May you always remember when the shadows fall– You do not walk alone. Irish Blessing
God wants to always be with us, wherever we may be – in our sin, in our suffering and death. We are no longer alone; God is with us. We are no longer homeless; a bit of the eternal home itself has moved unto us. ~Dietrich Bonhoeffer
Over the years I have found I don’t do alone well. Never have. I’ve always preferred plenty of activity around me, planning gatherings and communal meals, and filling up my days to the brim with all manner of socializing.
Typically I don’t prefer my own company. There is no glossing over my flaws nor distracting myself from where I fall short. Alone is an unforgiving mirror reflecting back what I have kept myself too overly busy to see.
I’ve never even lived alone except for short times when Dan is traveling.
I didn’t like that either.
Now that we all are breaking free of our two years of COVID semi-isolation, we know we were not alone in our continued concern over the hard times happening in the troubled world around us. The headlines buzz on our phones; there is no ignoring the suffering too many are enduring.
So I remind myself of the certainty that I know is the truth:
We need not be afraid. We are not alone in the darkness of trouble. We are loved, especially when times are hard. And I won’t forget – God is with us always, even through this.
This year’s Lenten theme for Barnstorming is a daily selection from songs and hymns about Christ’s profound sacrifice on our behalf.
If we remain silent about Him, the stones themselves will shout out and start to sing (Luke 19:40).
In His name, may we sing…
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Death shall not destroy my comfort, Christ shall guide me thro’ the gloom; Down he’ll send some heav’nly convoy, To escort my spirit home. ~American Folk Hymn
Our neighbor Linda died yesterday after being cared for in hospice for the past several days. Her life journey was sadly shortened by the gloom and toll of early-onset dementia.
Even as her memory developed enlarging gaps and holes over the past few years, Jesus was always her refuge when she was lost in her confusion. Linda never lost her awe of God’s goodness, and never forgot His love for her. Even when fearful of the unknown or unremembered, she was held fast by Jesus.
Worshipping weekly with her husband Steve and extended family members brought her immense joy and comfort. She smiled broadly, singing faithfully the hymns she had known for decades.
Her call home is bittersweet for Steve, along with her family and friends who have supported her remaining at home during her last few vulnerable years. There is a toll and gloom in watching a beloved person slowly fade from this life, like a wave retreating from this shore to crest on some other far-off place.
What we who mourn know is that Linda was greeted on that other shore by those who have gone before her, assuring her she no longer would wonder where she was or be worried about what comes next.
She will forever know the joy of worship and the assurance of belonging. After all, there is no gloom in heaven, only the light of holy love.
This year’s Lenten theme for Barnstorming is a daily selection from songs and hymns about Christ’s profound sacrifice on our behalf.
If we remain silent about Him, the stones themselves will shout out and start to sing (Luke 19:40).
In His name, may we sing…
Death shall not destroy my comfort, Christ shall guide me thro’ the gloom; Down he’ll send some heav’nly convoy, To escort my spirit home.
(Refrain): Oh, hallelujah! How I Love my Savior, Oh, hallelujah! That I Do. Oh, Hallelujah! How I love my Savior! Mourners, you may love him too.
Jordan’s stream shall not o’erflow me, While my Savior’s by my side; Canaan, Canaan lies before me! Soon I’ll cross the swelling tide.
See the happy spirits waiting, On the banks beyond the stream! Sweet responses still repeating, “Jesus! Jesus!” is their theme.
You came from dust and dust would be Without the Great Son’s victory. The gift is free yet must be claimed By goodness lived and evil tamed.
Prepared to walk this Lenten trail They face death’s dark and shadowed vale. Rememb’ring Christ who led the way They bravely march beneath his sway. ~Ash Wednesday’s Early Morn
And so the light runs laughing from the town, Pulling the sun with him along the roads That shed their muddy rivers as he goads Each blade of grass the ice had flattened down. At every empty bush he stops to fling Handfuls of birds with green and yellow throats; While even the hens, uncertain of their notes, Stir rusty vowels in attempts to sing.
He daubs the chestnut-tips with sudden reds And throws an olive blush on naked hills That hoped, somehow, to keep themselves in white. Who calls for sackcloth now? He leaps and spreads A carnival of color, gladly spills His blood: the resurrection—and the light. ~Louis Untermeyer from “Ash Wednesday”
May the light shine on our dusty darkness. May we be stilled, stunned to silence by the knowledge of the Lord, who sees us as we are, knows us as we are, and loves us anyway.
O people, we who are His loved children, who too often turn away from Him so only our ashes remain. His touch ignites us to light again, His blood has been spilled across the sky.
This year’s Lenten theme for Barnstorming is a daily selection from songs and hymns about Christ’s profound sacrifice on our behalf.
If we remain silent about Him, the stones themselves will shout out and start to sing (Luke 19:40).
In His name, may we sing…
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…we all suffer. For we all prize and love; and in this present existence of ours, prizing and loving yield suffering. Love in our world is suffering love. Some do not suffer much, though, for they do not love much. Suffering is for the loving. This, said Jesus, is the command of the Holy One: “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” In commanding us to love, God invites us to suffer.
Over there, you are of no help. What I need to hear from you is that you recognize how painful it is. I need to hear from you that you are with me in my desperation. To comfort me, you have to come close. Come sit beside me on my mourning bench. ~Nicholas Wolterstorff from Lament for a Son
Spring 1980
I wondered if 8:30 AM was too early to call my friend and mentor Margy. As a sleep-deprived fourth year medical student, I selfishly needed to hear her voice. I wanted to know how she was doing; she was not sleeping well either these days. She was wearing a new halo brace—a metal contraption that wrapped around her head like a scaffolding to secure her degenerating cervical spine from collapsing from metastatic breast cancer growth in her bones. When she was fitted into the brace, she named the two large screw-like fasteners anchored into her frontal skull her “Frankenstein bolts”. I had reassured her that with a proper white veil draped around the metal halo, she would be more suited to be Frankenstein’s bride.
Each patient I had seen the previous 24 hours while working in the Emergency Room benefited from the interviewing skills Margy had taught each one of us medical students. She reminded us that each patient had an important story to tell, and no matter how pressured our time, we needed to ask questions that gave permission for that story to be told. As a former nun now married with two teenage children, Margy had become our de facto counselor, and insisted physicians-in-training remember the soul thriving inside the broken and hurting body.
“Just let the patient know with certainty, through your eyes, your body language, your words, that you want to hear what they have to say. You can heal so much hurt simply by sitting beside them and caring enough to listen…”
Now with her recent diagnosis of metastatic cancer, Margy herself had become the broken vessel who needed the glue of a good listener. She continued to teach, often from her bed at home and I regularly visited, in need of her wisdom and she still needed her students.
That night I had felt uneasy about her all during my ER shift and felt compelled to visit her and her husband and daughter that day, maybe help out by cleaning their house, fixing them a meal or taking her for a drive as a diversion.
Her phone rang only once after I dialed her number. There was a long pause; I could hear a clearing of her throat. A deep dam of tears welled behind a muffled “Hello?” Something was deeply wrong.
Her voice shattered like glass into fragments, strangling on words that struggled to form. She sobbed out the words that their college son, Gordon, was dead. Earlier that morning, a police officer had knocked loudly on their door, awakening her and her husband with the news of a tragic highway accident.
I sat in stunned silence, listening to her sobs, completely unequipped to know how to respond. None of this made sense although I knew her son was on college spring break, heading to Mexico for a missions trip.
She paused and took in a shuddering breath.
“Gordy died as they were driving through the night. He was sleeping in the camper as they drove. They think he sleepwalked right out of the back of the moving camper, fell onto the highway and was hit by another car.“
I felt strangled by her words and could only imagine how difficult it was for her to keep breathing enough to say them.
“They’ll bring him home to us, won’t they? I need to know I can see him again. I need to tell him how much I love him.”
I assured Margy she would see him again, both in his broken body and, some day yet to be determined, whole.
Up until then, I knew in my head this life was full of sorrow, but I had been spared the full heart impact of grief until I witnessed such intensity of an acute unbelievable loss – how loving one so deeply meant suffering immeasurably.
I understood, for the first but surely not the last time, how it is the only way to love.
During the remaining few months of Margy’s life as she waited to join her son, she continued to teach me about how to come close in to the suffering and grief of others, and also how to sit together, even in silence, on that too-often lonesome mourning bench.
…for the Jude Veltkamp family who lost their teenage son, grandson, nephew, brother this week to a relentless cancer.
But our God is even more relentless in His love and comfort for His mourning children…
I knew this life was full of sorrow But still I believed That good times would follow That the evil would falter And true hearts would rise True hearts would rise That simple dream ended On the night that you died
And even the sound of a whistle fading Brings back the longing And stirs up the aching Peaceful companion that grounded my soul You grounded my soul The world spins without meaning Now that you’re gone
Sometimes I still think I will see you in New York And we will meet on the platform of the train And with your great leaning stride You’ll cross back to my side And my old life Will be my life again
You were quiet as a winter sky Where planets turn And the North Star rides My sweet brother, so reasoned, so calm My brother, my own The world spins without meaning Now that you’re gone ~Fernando Ortega
Though I know well enough To hunt the Lady’s Slipper now Is playing blindman’s-buff, For it was June She put it on And grey with mist the spider’s lace Swings in the autumn wind, Yet through this hill-wood, high and low, I peer in every place; Seeking for what I cannot find I do as I have often done And shall do while I stay beneath the sun. ~Andrew Young “Lady’s Slipper Orchid”
My grandmother’s house where my father was born had been torn down. She sold her property on Fidalgo Island near Anacortes, Washington to a lumber company – this was the house where all four of her babies were born, where she and my grandfather loved and fought and separated and finally loved again, and where we spent chaotic and memorable Thanksgiving and Christmas meals. After Grandpa died, Grandma took on boarders, trying to afford to remain there on the homesteaded wooded acreage on Similk Bay, fronted by meadows where her Scottish Highland cattle grazed. Her own health was suffering and she reached a point when it was no longer possible to make it work. A deal was struck with the lumber company and she moved to a small apartment for the few years left to her, remaining bruised by leaving her farm.
My father realized what her selling to a lumber company meant and it was a crushing thought. The old growth woods would soon be stumps on the rocky hill above the bay, opening a view to Mt. Baker to the east, to the San Juan Islands to the north, and presenting an opportunity for development into a subdivision. He woke my brother and me early one Saturday in May and told us we were driving the 120 miles to Anacortes. He was on a mission.
As a boy growing up on that land, he had wandered the woods, explored the hill, and helped his dad farm the rocky soil. There was only one thing he felt he needed from that farm and he had decided to take us with him, to trespass where he had been born and raised to bring home a most prized treasure–his beloved lady slippers from the woods.
These dainty flowers enjoy a spring display known for its brevity–a week or two at the most–and they tend to bloom in small little clusters in the leafy duff mulch of the deep woods, preferring only a little indirect sunlight part of the day. They are not easy to find unless you know where to look.
My father remembered exactly where to look.
We hauled buckets up the hill along with spades, looking as if we were about to dig for clams at the ocean. Dad led us up a trail into the thickening foliage, until we had to bushwhack our way into the taller trees where the ground was less brush and more hospitable ground cover. He would stop occasionally to get his bearings as things were overgrown. We reached a small clearing and he knew we were near. He went straight to a copse of fir trees standing guard over a garden of lady slippers.
There were almost thirty of them blooming, scattered about in an area the size of my small bedroom. Each orchid-like pink and lavender blossom had a straight backed stem that held it with sturdy confidence. To me, they looked like they could be little shoes for fairies who may have hung them up while they danced about barefoot. To my father, they represented the last redeeming vestiges of his often traumatic childhood, and were about to be trammeled by bulldozers. We set to work gently digging them out of their soft bedding, carefully keeping their bulb-like corms from losing a protective covering of soil and leafy mulch. Carrying them in the buckets back to the car, we felt some vindication that even if the trees were to be lost to the saws, these precious flowers would survive.
When we got home, Dad set to work creating a spot where he felt they could thrive in our own woods. He found a place with the ideal amount of shade and light, with the protection of towering trees and the right depth of undisturbed leaf mulch. We carefully placed the lady slippers in their new home, scattered in a pattern similar to how we found them. Then Dad built a four foot split rail fence in an octagon around them, as a protection from our cattle and a horse who wandered the woods, and as a way to demarcate that something special was contained inside.
The next spring only six lady slippers bloomed from the original thirty. Dad was disappointed but hoped another year might bring a resurgence as the flowers established themselves in their new home. The following year there were only three. A decade later, my father himself had left farm and family, not looking back.
Sometime after the divorce, when my mother had to sell the farm, I visited our lady slipper sanctuary in the woods for the last time in the middle of May, seeking what I hoped might still be there, but I knew was no longer. The split rail fence still stood, guarding nothing but old memories. No lady slippers bloomed. There was not a trace they had ever been there. They had simply given up and disappeared.
The new owners of the farm surely puzzled over the significance of the small fenced-in area in the middle of our woods. They probably thought it surrounded a graveyard of some sort.
And they would be right – it did.
An embroidery I made for my father after he replanted the lady slippers — on the back I wrote “The miracle of creation recurs each spring in the delicate beauty of the lady slipper – may we ourselves be recreated as well…”
Once more, once more into the sunny fields Oh, let me stray! And drink the joy that young existence yields On a bright, cloudless day. Once more let me behold the summer sky, With its blue eyes, And join the wild wind’s voice of melody, As far and free it flies. Once more, once more, oh let me stand and hear The gushing spring, As its bright drops fall starlike, fast and clear, And in the sunshine sing. ~Frances Kemble“A Farewell”
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