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Monday's Mourning Ministry
The Slow Voice of Ruin
(My poem, written to my child about her
daddy on Father's Day...)
He cannot function. Sure, he can walk...
He can see a client or two; he can talk...
But any more work he cannot do,
As you see baby girl, he's still grieving you.
I cannot explain what happens to th' mind
As death coils around, snaps it from the Vine;
It still is working, but it is consumed–
With the fact that you're gone and that we're doomed...
That doesn't leave much for any other task;
Grief is its own Taskmaster, since you ask.
With your loss, it seems his heart has reached its fill
Of grief, then anger, then desires to kill.
There's ever an internal war raging,
Setting us up for th' next battle's staging.
If quiet, you'll hear the next storm brewin'–
Th' wind whips by your grave, th' slow voice of ruin...
In the Garden
~Alan Jackson
On Father's Day, I also think of my own precious daddy, such a sweet, strongly-principled godly man with a very tender heart toward his family, his church, and his God. He too knew of loss... As a child of four, he lost his own mother to cancer; at the age of 65, he lost his first-born son to cancer. (My brother was only 38 years old, and the father of his own 14-year-old son.) Deep losses. Deep faith. Deep love.
My father's favorite hymn was "I Come to the Garden Alone." This hymn has deep meaning for me as it represents Daddy's tender relationship with his Living Lord. Often, if I got up early, I would find my father in our den on his knees before his day would begin. Such a deep faith. Such a sweet love for his Lord and for us he passed down to us. I pray that his favorite song will minister to your grieving hearts as well.
In the Garden
~Alan Jackson
In memory of my daddy,
Charles Curtis Bennett, Sr.
and of my brother,
Charles Curtis "Buddy" Bennett, Jr.
In the Garden
~Alan Jackson
I come to the garden alone,
While the dew is still on the roses;
And the voice I hear, falling on my ear,
The Son of God discloses.
And He walks with me, and He talks with me,
And He tells me I am His own;
And the joy we share as we tarry there,
None other has ever known.
I'd stay in the Garden with Him
but the night around me is falling,
But He bids me go; through the voice of woe,
His voice to me is calling.
And He walks with me, and He talks with me,
And He tells me I am His own;
And the joy we share as we tarry there,
None other has ever known.
And the joy we share as we tarry there,
None other has ever known.
girl in the wind and barren ground picture:http://twitpic.com/15dwe0
Poem - The Slow Voice of Ruin - Angie Bennett Prince - 6/19/10, writing to my child about her daddy on Father's Day..., inspired by Cormac McCarthy, Sutree,
garden picture: http://twitpic.com/zqzo2
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yzzqhaLl_8w
