“O Grave, where is thy sting”
Well, since you’re asking…
Your sting, O Grave, is in the sad eyes of an aged, white-haired mother
Who should not have to bury her son
Your sting, O Grave, is in the cry of an older brother, plodding through the sugar bush
Undone by grief and loss
Your sting, O Grave, is in an unborn, much anticipated grandbaby
Who won’t be held and playfully teased by Grampa
Your sting, O Grave, is in the ache of adult children
Fast-tracked into a too-soon intimacy with you
Your sting, O Grave, is in a woman seized by your demand of immediate details
As she walks through a “veil of tears”
Your sting, O Grave, is in a beloved produce wheeler ‘n’ dealer, torn from his roadside stand
You’ve left his family holding the bag
Your sting, O Grave, is in son, husband, father, and brother taken, taken much too soon
Leaving a gaping hole
“O Grave, where is thy sting?”
Do you really have to ask?
Really?
Do you have to ask?
