The Burial of the Dead, from The Wasteland by T.S. Eliot
April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain....
...What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock)...
Monday, April 30, 2007
So ends April
...all jocularity aside, I could use your prayers...another funeral, this time for a friend's mother. One of the hardest things for a church musician is to play for funerals where you know the people. I've not mastered the 'nerves of steel' yet....don't know if I ever will. Here is how I feel: