Hold my hand

A couple of weeks ago I took part in a reflection on the cross. Part of the reflection could revolve around Christ in the midst of our suffering. We were in a Church, but the day was beautiful so I took the opportunity to explore. As you walked out the side door of the Church you could see about four rows of twenty or thirty gravestones. Only one, in the furthest corner, was in the shape of a cross. I headed towards it, and as I walked I could see that there were more crosses in the graveyard, but this particular one drew me on.

Still thinking about the suffering of Christ, I read the inscription.

Name
Died 1983
1 hour old

I wept. As I wept I saw a butterfly land gently on the grave; a dog whined. I wrote a poem to try to describe that sacred moment.

Hold my hand

Hold my hand
O precious Christ

The butterfly kisses where the baby lies

Hold my hand
O precious Christ

The dog howls its lonesome cry

Hold my hand
O precious Christ

Ignorant traffic rumbles by

Hold my hand
O precious Christ

This baby died but an hour old

Hold my hand
O precious Christ

Alongside my pain

O precious Christ
Hold my hand.