Lay Not A Rose Upon My Grave: A Poem to the Living

First, allow me to say that there are many occasions when leaving flowers at a grave is the right thing to do. Sometimes it is what a grieving heart needs to do. It is not wrong to bring flowers to the grave of a loved one.

This poem was inspired by an act of love that gave roses to grieving family and friends.

We had just finished the graveside service for Chuck Morris. After the pastor spoke the final "Amen," the eldest son of the family stepped forward, plucked the biggest red rose from the bouquet resting on the coffin, and offered it to his mother, who accepted it with gratitude and a hug. It was a quiet, beautiful gesture--and exactly what Mr. Morris would have wished for his wife in that moment. She then turned to the rest of us and invited each of us to take a rose. When I left the body of my friend at the grave on that steely winter day, my rose was a source of tender comfort to me. As I watched it bloom over the next weeks, a poem took shape.

This poem is written from the perspective of the one who has died and gone home to Jesus, and who now speaks to those friends still living on earth.
______________________

Lay Not A Rose Upon My Grave 

Lay not a rose upon my grave,

Dear friend, when I leave you

For judging twixt the two of us

I have the better view

 

In realms of pleasures evermore

Wrapped in Divine embrace

What earthen rose could e’er outshine

The Rose of Sharon’s face

 

But give the bloom to earthbound friends

And to their comfort see

With Jesus walking by my side

Eternal joys wait me

 

Please seek the welfare of my kin

Give them this flower of love

Pray that their eyes look up to Him

Who gives grace from above

 

Lay not a rose upon my grave

When from this earth I part

Friend, take and keep it for yourself—

A gift from Heaven’s heart

 

 

Made to Praise Him: A Poem of Worshipful Walking

Columbine at Wild River State Park

Today is the birthday of a good friend, but he isn't here to celebrate. It's his first birthday in heaven, and our first spring without him.

Throughout my teen and college years, the coming of spring meant the resumption of family walks with Mr. and Mrs. Morris. Whenever my brother and I heard they were joining us for a state park outing, we knew it would be a long outing, but not an arduous one. Mr. and Mrs. Morris didn't walk to log miles. They walked to see birds, flowers, butterflies, moths, and any pretty view you might find along the way. There was no hurry to get to a certain point. When you walked, you explored, binoculars at the ready, identification books in your pack. At each new bloom or bird, you stopped, observed, and identified. Thus we learned the name of wildflowers, and when and where to look for different birds, and yet it was never boring. Mr. and Mrs. Morris were always quick to see the beauty and wonder of everything--to point out the masterpiece of God's wise design in creation.

Of course there were days when we did not see much of anything, but we never came home disappointed. The conversation between sights was rich, filled with ideas to think through, humor from lived experience, and encouragement from the Word. This mingling of love of nature and love of the Word blended into a song of wonder, faith, and worship. It was the very best way to enjoy the woods.

The poem below is a reflection of our nature outings with Mr. and Mrs. Morris and their legacy of worshipful walking.

___________________________

 

Made to Praise Him

Come my friend, and with me walk
Wander through the woods and talk
See again in fresh array
What our God has made today
        All that we might praise Him

Seek the bower of the trees
Cottonwoods clap waxy leaves
Birches in cool breezes sway
Pines are whispering today
        Growing tall to praise Him

Look! Quick! See the flash of red
Glimpse an iridescent head
Hear the warblers’ “sweet, sweet, sweet”
Woodpecker’s percussion beat
        Wings on high to praise Him 

Columbine bejewel our way
Violets, peas perfume the day
Humans never tend this land
Cultivated by His hand
        Blooming now to praise Him

Stop and look at each rare sight
Count not miles but delights
Petals, feathers each a sign
Bearing marks of wise design
        Stop and stare and praise Him

Woods give way to fields bright
Thistle blooms dance in sunlight
Songs of crickets, honey bees
Prairie grasses’ symphony
        Meadows made to praise Him 

Slow, don’t rush. Reflect a bit
Watch the swallows as they flit
Bluebird sings his summer song
Melodies to make us long
        For sweeter voice to praise Him

See the flowers, how they grow
Birds, they neither reap nor sow
God supplies their daily feed
He’ll not leave His own in need
        Pray and trust and praise Him

Sit, converse, and eat your fill
Rest and make time to be still
Think of all the things we’ve seen
Thank the Lord for company
        Friends who help us praise Him

Dark is rising, start the cars
Drive home under veil of stars
Knowing even while we sleep
Galaxies His praise repeat
        All creation praise Him

 

A Pause: A Poem for Chuck Morris

Flowers at Wild River State Park

The best friendship in this world is like an ongoing conversation, one that you can pick up where you left off before you got interrupted. I know because I have been part of a conversation that span 28 years. Even though Chuck and Linda Morris were much older than me, the friendship they offered to me as young girl was rich and sincere. They were kindred spirits, sharing good books, encouraging words, and refreshing hikes in the woods. While my marriage and children eventually meant that our visits happened less often, these friends happily jumped into our busy lives whenever the opportunity came, blessing even our youngest son, Nathaniel Charles, with a ready smile and listening ear. And they always ready on the other end of the phone to talk and pray about everything.

Mr. Morris died last week. 

He is now with Christ, and we are left here. While I struggle with words, with everything I wish I could say or ask him now, I take a breath and pause. This is not the end of our conversation. It is a pause. By grace, through faith in Jesus' saving work, this friendship will not end with death. Someday we will be together again, this time where the fellowship will never end.

What follows is a poem exploring this hope, written to Mr. Morris before his death as my farewell to a very dear friend.

_________________

A Pause

A pause is nothing new to us.
We’ve had many of them before—
         A flash of scarlet tanager;
         A song of phoebee;
         A parting of trees to wildflower vistas—
Each glimpse of glory a break in sentences,
A sharpening of thoughts,
A divine redirection of conversation.

A pause is nothing new to us.
We’ve had many of them before—
         Visits spaced far apart,
         Interrupted by weddings, by babies,
         Interrupted by children who grow into talkers—
Eager and energetic,
The young boy who shares your name most of all.
A Providential irony to brighten the days.
(Maybe someday he will pause to breathe?)

A pause is nothing new to us.
We’ve had many of them before—
         Silences in prayers;
         Humble petitions spoken;
         Followed by a humble waiting—
An accepting of the Father’s will,
By living in faith.
Surely God will do what is best.

But now we come to a new pause.
One we’ve never done before—
         When you are called to greater Pleasure
         More vivid Glory
         A Home not here—
And we will be left to wonder,
What would he think?
What would he say?

We will have to live in that pause,
For now, but not forever—
         Only until we are called ourselves
         To our Greatest Friend,
         To our forever Home.
There we will be together again,
Fully seeing,
Fully knowing,
In a life never paused again.