Spiritual Sunday
I recently wrote about the death of close friend William Boyd, who lived with us when he was a student at St. Mary’s College of Maryland and helped bring up our three sons, who regarded him as a brother. We recently watched his funeral service in a Baltimore church, and the combination of sadness and hope reminded me of an Anne Bradstreet poem.
Interestingly, Bradstreet references the same Shakespeare line that I did when I first wrote about William’s death. The passage in Cymbeline reads, “Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,” while Bradstreet writes, “The burning sun no more shall heat.”
Bradstreet had more than her share of sorrows and may have written the following poem when she was dying of tuberculosis. Her hoped-for meeting with Christ-the-bridegroom was a sentiment expressed by several of the speakers at William’s funeral.
As weary pilgrim, now at rest, Hugs with delight his silent nest, His wasted limbs now lie full soft That mirey steps have trodden oft, Blesses himself to think upon His dangers past, and travails done. The burnIng sun no more shall heat, Nor stormy rains on him shall beat. The briars and thorns no more shall scratch, Nor hungry wolves at him shall catch. He erring paths no more shall tread, Nor wild fruits eat instead of bread. For waters cold he doth not long For thirst no more shall parch his tongue. No rugged stones his feet shall gall, Nor stumps nor rocks cause him to fall. All cares and fears he bids farewell And means in safety now to dwell. A pilgrim I, on earth perplexed With Sins, with cares and sorrows vext, By age and pains brought to decay, And my clay house mold'ring away. Oh, how I long to be at rest And soar on high among the blest. This body shall in silence sleep, Mine eyes no more shall ever weep, No fainting fits shall me assail, Nor grinding pains my body frail, With cares and fears ne'er cumb'red be Nor losses know, nor sorrows see. What though my flesh shall there consume, It is the bed Christ did perfume, And when a few years shall be gone, This mortal shall be clothed upon. A corrupt carcass down it lies, A glorious body it shall rise. In weakness and dishonor sown, In power 'tis raised by Christ alone. Then soul and body shall unite And of their Maker have the sight. Such lasting joys shall there behold As ear ne'er heard nor tongue e'er told. Lord make me ready for that day, Then come, dear Bridegroom, come away.