The following poem is my very first attempt at writing poetry. I wrote it when I was about 20 years old. My parents and I were on the mission field in Mexico, and had to return because my grandfather’s health had turned for the worse.
I recall the day he passed into Glory…it was bittersweet. He was in a hospital room in a small town in Kansas. My mom and I were the only two in the room when the angels came to take him away. He had been in a coma, no expression on his face whatsoever. My mom was praying, asking God to ease his suffering; I was watching him…looking for signs of improvement. All of a sudden, my mom stopped praying…she heard the same thing I did, a deafening sound of wings in the room. My grandfather opened his eyes, and there was a huge smile on his face. He raised his arms towards Heaven, and sat up. He was staring at the ceiling. He wasn’t even aware that my mom and I were there. He was looking at something ‘unseen’ to us. Then he closed his eyes, and with peace on his face, fell back on the pillow. He was gone…
At that very instant, a baby boy down the hall was born. I remembered what my grandmother used to say…”One dies…one is born.”
I wrote this poem, and it was read at his funeral, at the Lone Tree church in Kansas.-anita
Outside a window, a robin sings in the sunshine of a new morn.
There’s happiness in the hearts of some, for a man-child is being born.
But in a cold, dark hospital room, my grandpa lies…he’s dying.
So short his breath, you scarce can hear; The angels must be very near.
We cry and weep, but we should see…he’s better off than you and me!
For he’s gone to Heaven to be with his Lord; He’s seen His side, where the blood outpoured.
He’s seen His nail-scarred hands, and feet; He’s seen His blessed face, so sweet.
He’s heard Him say, “Well done, my son. Your life is over, your race is run.”
He’s seen the beautiful streets of gold; The things that were mysteries, have now been told.
No suffering, sighing…not a care! Only peace and joy and comfort and love;
These are the things that are up above.
Where our blessed Lord is preparing a place for those who have finished and won their race.
He’s happy up there with his Savior near; He’s heard all the things that we long to hear.
He’s seen all the things that we long to see; Yes! I know that he’s better off, than you and me!
By: Anita Mondragon 1972