To a Soldier's Widow

To a Soldier's Widow

Her brush, a feather borne of wind and fiery rain,
cries aloud when news of loss is come, and
describes the flight of grace midst dreadful pain.

He, a soldier, dies a hero's death on foreign plain,
she, a prisoner of familiar unfamiliar land
Her brush, a feather borne of wind and fiery rain,

Smudges grey and gloom and casts an artless stain.
And looking up, her soul, to catch his hand,
describes the flight of grace midst dreadful pain.

A coffin comes, with wishing words, and all that can remain
is memory that paints in gold two golden wedding bands,
Her brush, a feather borne of wind and fiery rain,

Begs the earth, "Turn on," and still her heart, as if upon a chain,
oftimes cries out, oft learns of God to understand,
describes the flight of grace midst dreadful pain.

Her greys take color, give God glory, her art again regained.
Her soldier gone, she paints his story - that flame is ever fanned,
her brush, a feather borne of wind and fiery rain,
describes the flight of grace midst dreadful pain.