Its Raining On Your Grave, My Child
Its hailing on your grave my child, a loud and deafening sound.
I want to be there, Its pointless I know for after all its just a grave".
Memories of a tiny girl - Terrified of storms, the noise that it brings.
We would cuddle up; I'd hold you tight, sing calming songs, whisper in your ear: ”hush now my child your momma's here, this too shall pass let go of your fear".
As you matured, different storms came; but now I could not help.
In a darkened room the curtains drawn
You would lie in a fetal position staring at what-I-could-not-see
trapped in your soul-storm, not crying or moving
how helpless I felt, for how do you fight what you cannot see?
Your sunny days were contagious – you were bubbly and happy,
Creative, artistic, painting rainbows and flowers, all that was bright
then the bad days would strike and like a bruised reed
you became still; quite still, and no-one was welcome - not even me.
How often I would plead with you
"Please talk to me when the storms return
your mother is here, let go of your fear".
Then came the day the you succumbed (how big a storm this must have been!)
When I found you on that fateful day - the pain! It crushed my heart
I thought it a nightmare, surely I would wake up
this can't be my daughter, No! Lord No!
Will she now forever be caught in a storm?
Then gently He spoke
I have her here safe, your daughter was tired
and I brought her Home.
So whenever I think of your frequent storms
I console myself you were loved since you were born
And in God’s Grace and Mercy may He treat you gently,
may the sun shine brightly.
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