She lay upon her bed of pain;
the chrysalis grew dull and gray;
the colors which we knew as her
were fading fast, so fast, away;
but, underneath the fragile clay,
we saw new colors burning through
of soul triumphant in its flight
approaching Glory's avenue.
It seemed we heard her spirit groan,
her frail flesh tremble beneath the weight
of wings fast-pulsing with new life
and yearning for the Infinite.
She's free! Her dewy wings soft-dried
by hovering angel's gentle breath
have lifted once, now twice they stir
and find the air: can this be death?
© 1987, Faye Lanham Gibson
Copyright © Faye Gibson | Year Posted 2014
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