Friday, April 24, 2009

I measure every grief...

It is sometimes a truly wondrous thing how poetry can express what prose cannot. Grief is a hard thing that every man has to deal with in their lives. If you choose not to deal with your grief (whatever that may be), you condemn yourself to more misery. Artists tend to have more experience with expressing grief- but don't let that fool you... that does not mean they know how to deal with it...


I measure every grief I meet
With analytic eyes;
I wonder if it weighs like mine,
Or has an easier size.

I wonder if they bore it long,
Or did it just begin?
I could not tell the date of mine,
It feels so old a pain.

I wonder if it hurts to live,
And if they have to try,
And whether, could they choose between,
They would not rather die.

I wonder if when years have piled--
Some thousands--on the cause
Of early hurt, if such a lapse
Could give them any pause;

Or would they go on aching still
Through centuries above,
Enlightened to a larger pain
By contrast with the love.

The grieved are many, I am told;
The reason deeper lies,--
Death is but one and comes but once
And only nails the eyes.

There's grief of want, and grief of cold,--
A sort they call 'despair,'
There's banishment from native eyes,
In sight of native air.

And though I may not guess the kind
Correctly yet to me
A piercing comfort it affords
In passing Calvary,

To note the fashions of the cross
Of those that stand alone
Still fascinated to presume
That some are like my own.

- Emily Dickinson


It is a strange comfort to know that you are not alone. I wish that I could really convey my gratitude to all the people (strangers and friends alike) who God has used to show me that I am not alone in my struggles- not alone in my grief. I'll start with the dead... Thank you Emily, I mean that.

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