For these a long night full of grief and anguish.
A vigil around a dying man’s bed.
A vigil waiting for news, so fearful.
All waiting as those together in an upper room.
But for us no healing wind, nor fire of love,
Just the pall of silence as lights go out,
Dreams fade into a life that was,
And these illusions of permanence are broken again.
So we stand by the Dark River,
Not wanting to accept, less still pay for this crossing,
Oh there is anger now, for it should not be this way,
For how can we be without him,
This man that was so much of who we are, of what we mean.
But in this loneliness, we should not feel so alone,
If only we can, despite desperation, open our hearts,
Or our eyes. Open our minds, just for a second,
Then we see the army of others around us,
Grieving, weeping for so much that is lost,
Hoping for consolation, wondering who understands.
Perhaps a mother then, who saw an innocent son nailed to a cross,
Who bore the pain of this ridiculing, gross humiliation,
Who felt the shame of countless others.
Who tasted despair, even whilst trusting in God.
And so let our broken hands reach out from grief to grief,
From our lonely rock of despair to this archipelago of bereavement.
That we might find solidarity and love with these comrades in arms.
That we might live again despite the death we have known.
Songs for Huda 