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We buried Dad a month ago;
The month was long, the grief is slow: A briar-patch in thorny soil, Producing life with mortal coil Around its stem, a pain that chokes My life to death and which provokes A cry within my shadowed night-- That God would set the world aright And take my thorns from side and ground And fashion them in royal crown, Put death to death, to bear this curse; That He would make this month reverse, And I would hear it said of Dad, "He lives, he lives, he is not dead."
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It was cold tonight when I visited his grave
And spoke as if he could hear my words Wavering on the winds of visible breath Gone skyward, rising past my downcast face; I spoke as usual, not knowing any other way, Not absent-minded of his absence, his presence With the Lord and not with me, but still I spoke into the night, by faith and not By sight, and likewise walked back to the car With hope that one day I would rush like Mary To the tomb and hear the words: "He is not here." How long, O Lord, will You forget Your servant, hide Your face from me? How long this anxious heart persist Until Your hand delivers me? How long with dominating foe Must I be left in agony? Look now to me, O Lord, my God, And shine the light of life, a beam Of brightness in my eye that I Might live, of Your salvation sing; Come silence all my enemies And foil all the evil scheme. How long, O Lord, will You forget Your child, hide Your face from me? How long until You come with love That deals with me so bountifully? Let me rejoice with heart and voice That rises to eternity. Based on Psalm 13
Come hear my voice, O God, in my complaint; And guard my life from dreaded enemies, To hide me from the schemes of evil men, From all the tumult of iniquities, From those whose sharpened tongue, a slashing sword, Sends bitter speech, an arrow strung and aimed To take my life, to shoot the blameless; they Have no regard for fearing God, but strained In secrecy to set a snare for me, And think that they can get away with sin; But You will shoot them with an arrow straight And wound and pierce them through; they curse again Themselves–not me or You–caught in the snare They set; and showing folly of their aim, They make all shake their heads in right reproach And turn to You from every lesser name, Considering the deeds of Your right hand, The mighty works through ages You have wrought, The righteous to preserve in refuge glad But all Your enemies to bring to naught. Based on Psalm 64
Oh, the joy of the trial--
Not the fact of nor the while-- Is the forging by the fire Of a faith that will not tire, Of a life with dross removed, By the trial tested, proved. My Savior and Judge, to you I commit
My spirit, my life, the judgment I fear-- To you, who the righteous by faith will acquit; To you, who the guilty by no means will clear. Come quickly in judgment, give ear to my plea: Yes, mercy for thousands, but mercy for me. Free us, O Lord, from all trials looming
Over our lives and, like cloudier day, Blocking the light that seeks to illumine By casting a shadow, obscuring the way. Save us, O Lord, from darkness foreboding, Impending, depressing; and dimming the eye, Straining by faith to see what is written In Script of cloudier ink from the Sky. Consider me in my affliction;
Come, my troubled heart relieve; Do not tarry, nor be absent, From my anguish give reprieve; Consider all the sorrow swelling; From the depths of woe, receive My voice of lamentation raised; Turn a gracious ear to me; Consider all the trials pressing ‘Round, my wearied heart to grieve; Come, O Lord, the promised Savior, Let me to your promise cleave; Come, afflicted, gentle Savior, Lowly, come abide with me. Console me, O Great Comforter,
The paraklete my pain who bears, Who makes acquaintance with my grief And all my stinging sorrow shares. Console me, O Great Counselor, My helper all my cries who hears, Who meets me in the searing loss And wipes away my troubled tears. Console me, O Great Spirit God, Pneumatic breath new life who gives, Who hovers o'er the graven ground And breathes the final word: "He lives." We buried Dad today--
The sky was darkened grey And cloudy, as my mind And eyes, with rain behind Held back like buried grief, A torrent underneath The guise of grey and gloom, Not seeing past the tomb: The body freed from toil, A Sabbath in the soil. |
writer
Michael Price - I am a husband, father, poet, and science teacher at a classical Christian school in Memphis, TN. I have two volumes of poetry and one coming early 2024! 
New book coming in 2024!
Dissent with Modification: Poems Against COVIDism, Darwinism, and Wokeism 
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