He returned to us all battered and sore,
Having lived the fearful night,
For unto the rock he had desperately clung,
Until the morning's light.

He hugged the rock, the rock hugged back,
Defying the ocean's wrath,
For in the dark and billowing surge,
There was no other path.

And in the dark, he cursed the rock,
He did not understand,
For though it badly bruised him,
All else was in Death's hands.

But then, at last, the time did come,
The raging sea did cease,
And with the joy of early morn,
We rejoice in reborn peace.

But our loved one's wound we do lament,
Open in the morning air,
For now our joy is horribly rent,
By sorrow and despair.

We curse the night and the violent sea,
We even curse the rock,
But in our own heart's darkest ken,
A secret we unlock:

'Tis wrong to live what might have been,
Or even hate what was;
For none of us can change the past,
Though mighty be our cause.

And so we live with just what is,
Regardless of the strife,
For this is also the path of joy,
Within a human life.


William P. Green
(c) March 1992