Death becomes divine

Hands frozen in time, only here.
                       There,
                       they move, made new.
                                                    What all you lacked in earthly moments, there you      
                                                                                           hold.
                                                                                                   The glimmering
                                                                                                         gift of wisdom, love, lustrous.


We see only this: hands
                           held high,
asking
answer, pleading, help.
Frozen.
But death becomes divine and you have received.
Transference to abundance.
   A heritage of worth,
         endowed with glory we can not
                                 yet envision,
                                       Enlightened, finally.  Given sight.
Hands, Heaven directed have reached their goal, wooed by illumination,
captivated with splendor.


                We weep not for you.


What is a poet? An unhappy person who conceals profound anguish in his heart but whose lips are so formed that as sighs and cries pass over them they sound like beautiful music.
-Kierkegaard


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