To Miranda

The sorrow you leave behind
is that of a body missing its arm.
It is the disbelief of sudden absence,
the clumsiness of a crippling,
and the tormented yearning for lost wholeness.

For all this we weep,
but it, like you, has been overtaken
by miracles upon miracles:

that an eternal night, fallen on your eyes, has
instead become glorious morning;
that separation and anguish have instead meant
your soul's satisfaction at last;
that death's cold, strong hands can never shake
the hold of the One who lifts you from the grave.

(That all things, like you,
will be one day made new.)

Here is a joy painstakingly wrought
from agony,
a heart-wracking happiness
of hope born from deep darkness
and blossoming slowly into
blinding light.

You are loved,
and so we weep to see you go.
You are loved,
and so we know that you are healed.
You are loved,
and so are we, and

thus we'll meet again, for our stories
have been caught up together
in the joyful arms of our beautiful Father,
who died and lives, that you and I
might never truly die.
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