"The Funeral of a Friend's Son" - Anne Pabst
Through worn, chewed church pews poured grief. It coursed and rushed unmoored, as if from mountains sent; as if from a deep voice of the Old Testament. We stood; knelt; prayed; sang; offered words of comfort - even certainty; we mourners in black, full of holy effort, our hands and faces punctuations of light; candles lit; the torn, stained hems of our understanding hung under smooth coats.
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