I came across this poem the other day, and it may be helpful to you in a time of grief.
I'm adding a short little intro here to the normal intro we normally do. I'm about to read a poem here. It's way sadder. There's moments of it that are way sadder than I even thought. So I just want to give a little emotional warning before this episode. Just brace yourself, prepare yourself.
There is a turn in the poem, so it ends up joyful, but in the beginning, it could be difficult. Okay, now to the regularly scheduled podcast. Welcome to Politics by Faith. Thank you for being here. This Sunday is the memorial service for Charlie Kirk. I pray it is a beautiful service and moving and Holy Spirit led and sparks a revival and that God speaks through everyone who is speaking there and what needs to be said is said and heard by the American people.
I came across this poem two days ago. There's a lot of things in here that I think are relevant. It depends where your perspective is exactly, but I think it can help a lot of people in a lot of different ways. It's a poem by John Pierpont, who's a poet 150 years ago or so. It's called My Child. He says, I cannot make him dead.
His fair sunshiny head is ever bounding round my study chair. He's always running around me. Yet when my eyes now dim with tears, I turn to him, the vision vanishes. He's not there. I walk my parlor floor and through the open door, I hear a footfall on the chamber stair. I'm stepping towards the hall to give the boy a call and then be thanked.
me that he's not there. I tread the crowded street, a satcheled lad I meet, with the same beaming eyes and colored hair. And as he's running by, I follow him with my eye, scarcely believing that he's not there. I know, I know, his face is hid under the coffin lid. Closed are his eyes. Cold is his forehead fair.
My hand that marble felt. O 'er it in prayer I knelt, yet my heart whispers that he's not there. Quick pause, I'm halfway through. Nothing's really been said. I haven't heard anything said about Charlie Kirk's parents. So they're just thinking that of their child.
They have their emotions. This is from Erica's perspective, thinking of her children that now don't have a dad. And you've gone through heartache. This may be super relevant to your life right now as well, and maybe what you need to hear. The poet says, I cannot make him dead when passing by the bed, so long watched over with parental care, my spirit and my eye. Seek it inquiringly before the thought comes that he is not there.
When at the cool gray break of day from sleep I wake, with my first breathing of the morning air, my soul goes up with joy to him who gave my boy. Then comes the sad thought that he is not there. Oh my goodness. I don't know which of these is more heartbreaking. When at the day's calm close, before we seek repose, I'm with his mother offering up our prayer. Whatever I may be saying, I am in spirit praying for our boy's spirit, though he's not there.
" Not there. Where then is he? Can we please have a turn in this poem? Not there. Where then is he? The form I used to see was but the raiment that he used to wear.
Clothes. There's clothes. Raiment's just clothing. So the form, the thing that I see that I can't stop seeing, running around, jump around me, climb up the stairs. The thing I can't not see, the thing I can't unsee is just clothes that he used to wear. The grave that now doth press upon that cast -off dress is but his wardrobe locked.
He is not there. He lives. In all the past, he lives. In all my memories, nor to the last of seeing him again will I despair. In dreams I see him now, and on his angel brow I see it written, thou shalt see me there. Yes, we all live to God.
Father, thy chastening rod, so help us, thine afflicted ones, help us to bear that in the spirit land, meeting at thy right hand, t 'will be our heaven to find that he is there. John Pierpont, my child. I can't wait to go to heaven one day too. Mike Slater dot locals dot com. Transcript commercial free on the website. Mike Slater dot locals dot com.