By Katie Williamson
My old friend death comes to visit,
to sit and stay a while.
In truth, Lord, his company
is more familiar than your own.
It seems I walked with him
long before my seeds of faith were sown.
His hand he kindly places over mine,
and he anoints me with his cloak.
It reeks like third day Lazarus,
spice and oil soaked.
But death is playing tricks again—
this old friend (or so I’d hoped)
suddenly is Judas,
hand outstretched to share his rope.
Sometimes, Lord, he wears your face
and curves shepherd’s staff into scythe,
wrenching out from me that desert protest:
“Lord, you brought me here to die!”
Even Elijah’s ravens
take flight and flee my grasp.
The only sign their presence shows is
a fading, mocking rasp.
I heard once, Lord, you’d meet me here
and give me what I need.
I suppose I can wait and kick these goads
beneath my old broom tree.
Or, following hobbling widow
right up to your door,
I could knock, and knock, and knock again
until you yield succor.
My banging fist clutches at your word,
though death’s seeping palsy settles in.
I’m shaking now, and halfway blind,
but a thread of hope begins to spin.
Once upon a time you hovered over waters deep
and called all goodness forth—
Green grass and breath and leaping deer
shining with divine worth.
You promise to catch each Gethsemane tear
crushed out in death’s wake
and save them in a bottle
for my comfort’s sake.
Through the mouth of old Isaiah
you proclaimed you’d swallow up the gaping shroud of death,
and having sunk down through death’s throat yourself
you’d wipe away all tears and settle jagged breath.
You said to those in death’s shadow
on them a light would shine,
and the dawn of resurrection
would turn dirge to kingdom wine.
You declare death now stalks like naked emperor,
his tricks lacking their sting.
Over his toothless snarls
you now reign as King.
And so my Jesus comes to visit,
to sit and stay a while.
Lord, you were here all along—
mystery of mysteries to me—
come closer, now, my truest friend,
and we’ll walk together through death’s valley.
As we travel, Lord, help my unbelief!
I am tangled in the curse,
Wrestling like Jacob—because being here is good and right,
even if it hurts
Katie Williamson is a freelance writer and children’s ministry curriculum developer. She longs to help people cultivate emotionally healthy faith in childhood and beyond. When she is not putting pen to paper, you can find her in a PreK Sunday school classroom, the public library, or a local thrift store. You can connect with her via email.
