What now? Death
takes the best; the body droops
upon the Cross. We look;
the sting in eyes declares
that all is done.
It is finished. What?
Are we done for, Lord? Where
the hopes and fears of all
the years, once met in You?
Where now? All done?
All done for?
What next? Take the body down
and wait? The evening yawns.
Swing low, sweet chariot, come.
Come take us home.
The Consolations of Writing 