At the Graveside

A melancholy father lays to sleep
In this dark ground the bones of his dear son.
He asks you, O good Christ, to guard and keep
The soul of him whose earthly life is done.

He, not yet two and having just begun
To live, is gone. Shall not his father weep?
Dear Friend of Lazarus, it blacks the sun.
Grant hope and solace to your desperate sheep.

—Eric Hutchinson

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