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ONLY SON
Our Child, in Death, would have scoffed if we had told him yesterday,
Love made us feel ( or so some have told me ) like some great bird
descended to hold and shelter him in its strong wing: -- do not call it "death."
Call it "Refuge". A little shaded smile, as you tossed to us as you left.
It was not for that we were listening
when so quietly you slipped away with more than half the music of the world unheard.
What shall we do with our lost, strange Summers you blessed us with?
It is Winter now;
and what shall we do with Spring -- ?
This is the little victory of the grave; here's a small death-sting.
We are not strong enough to draw you back, with our strongest wing.
But what of God, Who like a Father pitieth?
We know His Son was also, once, a little thing,
most joyous, wistfullest child that ever drew breath to laugh and sing.
Chased by men from Bethlehem through the temple and busy houses at Nazareth.
He created worlds, and wood, and thorns, and nails, and gravity of hammer's swing,
Eons before His hands and feet were tied
and by that hammer and those great nails He died,
caught at Jerusalem, so young, at Spring.
Of sorrow, of loneliness, of victory, but King,
also under the shadow of God's wing.
