Another trip around the sun,
Another November nearly through -
And I'm standing at my graveside,
Soil in hand,
Staring at the depths
and thinking
R.I.P.
R.I.P the me
Who would have been loved at 23,
R.I.P. the me
Who by now would be a mother of three,
R.I.P the me
Who'd have known community,
Thrived as a missionary,
Been healthy, been happy, been holy-
Who'd have been done with therapy.
I know a man who said that
to really live you need to really die,
That if you want to truly flourish,
It starts with the death of I.
That's why I'm standing at my graveside
Weeping "R.I.P, me"-
Because that man died at thirty three-
Ashes to ashes,
dust to dust,
A seed that had to perish
before it bloomed to glory.
So, another trip around the sun,
Another familiar chill,
And I am standing at my graveside,
Soil in hand,
But saying "R.I.P me",
And trying to believe.
I'm trying to believe
That growth can come from the barren, frosty earth,
That death and death and death
will eventually give way to birth.
So much of me has died here
Year on year on year,
Of dreams and dread and dread and death,
Of dreams, then dread, then death.
Winter has followed winter,
Who would dare to hope for spring?
Yet I'm standing at my graveside.
The last of the leaves
are swept away by the bitter, icy breeze,
But I'm still trying to believe,
Even as I grieve,
That one day, "R.I.P me"
might become a song of resurrection,
A song of victory.