Write Me a Eulogy
We carried him to the chapel gate,
And laid him down to rest.
In a pinewood box beneath the cross,
With his Sunday suit and vest.
No soul there knew, no soul did ask,
If earth was what he’d choose.
If he’d rather drift the wind,
Or ride the morning dew.
I stepped up to the pulpit then,
My paper white and clean.
Not one tear had stained the page,
Nor hand had marked between.
I spoke of quiet, gentle ways,
A calm and patient man.
His brothers bowed their heads in shame—
They knew no such soul had been.
For he’d laugh so loud the windows shook,
He’d curse the fence and rain.
He’d sing off-key from dawn till dark,
Till every throat complained.
His oldest friends looked eye to eye,
But not a word was said—
For every line I’d come to read
Fit some stranger’s life instead.
I spoke of courage, grace, and peace,
Of virtues broad and much too plain.
The sort that fit most any man
Whose boots won’t walk our streets again.
I thanked the Lord for borrowed words,
Well-polished, neat, and true.
Though none were beckoned from memory,
And none belonged to you.
When all was done, they praised the speech,
Said, “Son, you spoke just right.”
But I had buried more than flesh
Before we left that night.
For first we laid his body down
Beneath the cedar tree.
Then laid the man I should have known
Beneath machinery.
Copyright © E.J. Weaver | Year Posted 2026
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