The Gift of Tears

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By Marjorie J. Thompson


What is it makes me weep—in book, or film, or gloried sky,

in church with other fragile souls,

in candle flame, in swelling song, in poignant harmony?


What is it makes me weep? The phrase

that forces breath to catch, a word

that stuns my placid mind,

feelings evoked to edge of memory.


What is it makes me weep? Hope

for so much more, much more beyond

world’s drowning sorrow, violent grief,

fear’s stench, convention’s empty sieve.

Oh! Sweet pungent yearning for what is not,

yet must, by promise and by faith, be.


Clinging to what shines in my deep hope

I taste desire for kingdom joy,

I see with spirit eyes what mortal vision

only dreams.


What is it makes me weep? Aching beauty

of ordinary kindness, cast of appreciative eyes,

smallest gesture of reaching love.

Oh, the imperceptible mystery of holiness

radiant in tiny acts of care.


What is it makes me weep?

The tears of grief weigh down a soul

but tears of joy buoy up the heart

with gratitude to heaven’s very door.


From Rhythm and Fire. Copyright © 2008 Upper Room Books. Used with permission.

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