Beryl A. Ouma Poet Free verse

GRIEF

If I were to find my lost gem
cast among the filth of the swines
I would not hesitate 
I would gather it into my trembling hands
with a gratitude too deep for words.
I would wash away the dust of exile,
polish it with tears and reverence,
and if fire were required,
I would not withhold it:
for even flame, in its mercy,
only restores what was alway precious.

But tell me, 
how does one gather what death has claimed?
How do you cleanse what has been carried
beyond the reach of hands,
beyond the language of return?
For death . . . 
has not merely taken,
It has silence a brilliance,
silenced a light,
hidden a treasure where love cannot follow in flesh.
And so we stand, empty-handed,
not because we would not restore;
but because this gem
has been lifted from our keeping
Into eternity's vault.

Indeed . . .
death has robbed us,
not of something ordinary,
but of a jewel heaven itself desired.

Till the resurrection morning,
when our loving Father will wipe every tear 
and call forth His own
What a delightful moment, will that be?

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