(From Jesus’ perspective about Joseph, his earthly father who vanishes from the scriptures)
Darkened room, hushed voices,
presence of death.
Not unexpected, for you were old
when I was young.
Grief bites hard.
From babe to man,
you were at my side.
I kneel there now,
your hand rough in mine.
I lay my head on your chest,
my tears fall.
I hear her weeping at the door,
a question in her cry:
Make the impossible possible.
But that's not how his life was to be lived.
This book is written.
This chapter over.
This verse stilled.
These tears the only record.
I rise and hold her in my arms,
calm the storm of her widow's grief.
I lift her head and speak of another
room in my Father's house,
where we all will be received.
For it was written, when he was old
and I was young.