Widow's Woe Is Heard
In days bygone, a widow was looked at as a tried leaf.
There was no aid, even from a twig. She just fell and fled.
As a branch that's cut off and ostracized, she's full of grief.
Jesus knew this. It's hence that, in him, concern for her grew.
It's not water. It's her inner ache that thawed into tears.
Her only son was gone, like a wing-clipped bird. She's grief-struck.
Thoughts of a future with nightmares brought her numerous fears.
Psyche was dead. Physique walked as though seeking some luck.
It's not mere bier, Jesus touched her fading heart's pitch-dark cores.
With her son, her joy, hope, and optimism were resurrected.
Her smile, like spring, replaced her winter woes. No summer sores.
Celestial scenes, in her mind, as on a mirror, reflected
He's a prophet, they said. Wasn't he the word made flesh, yet?
Wasn't his power, like the fragrance in blossoms, innate?
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