I have often expressed my fascination with nineteenth century religious poetry. In a time when there were few means through which strangers could engage with one another, poetry periodicals would often print a poem in one issue, then responses or rebuttals in future editions. I found just such a situation with a poem titled “A Mother’s Love” which was penned by a grieving, anonymous poet.
Still she keeps rocking him,
Ever caressing him,
Brushing his hair from his colorless brow;
Softly they’ve whispered her,
‘Life has gone out of him;’
Gently she answers—‘how still he is now!’
Still she keeps rocking him,
As though she would shake from him
The cold hand of death, like the weights from his eyes;
Rocking the clay of him,
While softly the soul of him
Angels are rocking far up in the skies.
A second anonymous poet subsequently replied with a poem of her own, a kind of gentle rebuttal that was meant to bring Scriptural encouragement.
Why does she weep for him,
Mourn and lament for him,
Craving at most
But a handful of dust?
Cold, lifeless clay at best,
Cold on her yearning breast
Lost is her treasure,
But
