Hallowed Ground

A sacred space, the spirit weak, Death's angel, patient, waits; The pneuma raspy, prospects bleak, Yet hope anticipates. From dust to dust, the cycle nears One revolution round; Despair ye not, for it is clear That this is hallowed ground. A mother and a faithful wife Slips peaceful to the past; A daughter of the king of life Awaits the unknown vast Where death has lost its grip, its sting, Yet felt by those still here, Till she beholds a wondrous thing: At last, to be drawn near. ---------- Written a few years back after sitting with my wife and her siblings and their father, as their mother passed.