As A Bride Adorned
From where she lies in her high bed she hears
The dear familiar sounds of normalcy–
Closing of doors and quiet openings,
Running of water, and the gentle click
Of silver on the china as they eat.
The rites of everyday drift to her room
As echoes, or as timeless memories,
Oh, never think she does not hear it all;
And never think those gentle sounds that come
Like voices of her girlhood, to her ears,
Pour in no added pain to her full cup.
She knows that once she moved about these rooms
As mistress; laid the mellow silver down
On aging linen; and the china, so.
She knows that every threshold bears the wear
Of her oft-crossings. And to know is hard.
She knows too that it shall not be again.
And so she lies in calm, omniscient pain,
Her Holy Book within her reach; her lips
Oft moving in familiar words of prayer;
Her mind addressed to some far-distant theme,
Her face translated with the peace of God.
And they who move about her, in her place,
They, being earthly, weep to comprehend
How peace can follow from this bed of pain.
Can they not see her as a virgin bride
Retiring to her own small room to dress
The quiet careful dressing for the groom–?
Oh, nothing hurried, no false gestures here.
In happy utter calm, her body washed
And sweet with washing, here she slips into
The perfect gown created for his joy.
With slow solemnity the fastenings made,
Her new-brushed hair wound tight to crown her head,
No flaw, no thread, no tailoring incomplete–
Assured, she slowly turns toward the door.
Let nothing hurried be; no anxious glance,
No nervous whispering, no guarded eyes;
Let no one enter this, her sacred place.
A bride prepares her soul to meet her Love.
Such Thoughts Of Thee