At Her Mother’s Funeral

She was a happy child,
one who always smiled.
She loved to sing and play
her music night and day.

She was twelve when the car
wrecked, leaving a deep scar
across her neck. At great cost,
she lived but with her voice lost.

Not one sound, not one song
from her in years. It was wrong,
but life is often somewhat mean.
More tragedy came at age sixteen.

Her mother took the sickness
and died with alarming quickness.
They gathered at the country church
there by a thicket of river birch.

The preacher spoke some words.
In the woods they could hear birds.
The gathering began to sing a hymn.
Suddenly, louder than the rest of them,

came this most angelic of singing,
with clarity like a great bell ringing.
All fell silent, stunned at the sound
so pure, so beautiful, so profound.

To their amazement, the girl was singing.
To her father’s arm she was clinging.
With tears streaming down her cheeks,
her voice climbed to magnificent peaks.

As her song ended, it was whispered God
had performed a miracle. “Is it so odd,”
the girl asked of one after the other,
“that I had to sing one last time for Mother?”


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