Sabbath Psalm 8
(from the song, “Death be Not Proud”)—a meditation for Abraham’s mourning
Dates on a stone—they’re just an alibi. A simple line cannot sum up my life. Beneath the tears, the wreaths, the letters, and the roses, God composes a new life as the old one decomposes. So come on death—I’ve got your dues! Take them any way you choose. And shake the heavens with your smile—if my bones are worth your while. But this coffin’s just a womb—thanks to the cross and empty tomb. God will get the final laugh! Death, here He comes, your epitaph!
You’re not the end, you’re just the start of me. Beneath my skin is the real heart of me. So don’t pretend that you can keep me locked forever in your grasp. You’re just a ship sunk on the ocean floor. Your flag was stripped when you hit Heaven’s shore. So close your grip—but the only thing you’ll ever hold is dust and ash.
I lay down my life and find it anew. Joy turns to joy at the thought of breaking through. God bless the pain that makes me desperate for the view. Death, be not proud. What are you boasting for? Thanks be to God, your walls are just an open door. God bless the place where you can’t haunt me anymore.