We’ve always known—at least in one part of the brain—
but we are tempted to despair.
When that last breath hovers soft on the air, the passing life feels
more real somehow than just belief—but
at the same time like losing vision in strong light,
edges fading into luminescence with the sun’s set.
And it’s fleeting this dream we have lived.
We’ve always known it would end, but why did we live as if it would not,
putting off the greater for the moment
of the lesser.
And the fleeting mists gather for a last exhale,
an exhale of all the things we still cling to, a final surrender to the everlasting.
This was our once far-off hope, even a fearful hope;
and now it’s here. Really real.
And the fleeting gives way to the endless, and it only hurts for those still left behind.
I Corinthians 15: 40- 44: “There are bodies which exist in this world, and bodies which exist in heaven. These bodies are not, as it were, in competition; the splendour of an earthly body is quite a different thing from the splendour of a heavenly body. The sun, the moon and the stars all have their own particular splendour, while among the stars themselves there are different kinds of splendour.
These are illustrations here of the raising of the dead. The body is “sown” in corruption; it is raised beyond the reach of corruption. It is “sown” in dishonour; it is raised in splendour. It is sown in weakness; it is raised in power. It is sown a natural body; it is raised a spiritual body. As there is a natural body so will there be a spiritual body.” (J.B. Phillips Translation)
Yes, it’s only a painful burden for those left behind. We know in our heads that we’ll be reunited in the beautiful Everlasting–but our hearts miss the presence “here” and feel the empty ache.
Beautiful, both for the mind and the eye!
This is gorgeous! I’m in awe. Truth…but so beautifully framed. Do you publish anywhere besides here? ‘Cause you should!
Thank you. Not right now, but I hope to. Too much life happening to even get organized, but the words keep coming in my restless early morns. So I write . . .
Reblogged this on A p r o n h e a d — Lilly.