Festival of the Dead

Our church celebrated Totenfest (Festival of the Dead - in the same vein as All Saints') this past Sunday. We dedicated the ground for a new Memorial Garden, and we spoke the names of friends and family who'd died in this past year. It was an incredibly moving morning - I even cried in front of the entire congregation during my Homily (I blamed the choir for singing such a beautiful song). 

As I searched out resources for the Memorial Garden dedication ceremony, I found this poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. I didn't use it for anything except my own prayers and meditations beforehand. But I wanted to honor it's place in my musings this week.

GOD'S ACRE

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls
The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just;
It consecrates each grave within its walls,
And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.

God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts
Comfort to those who in the grave have sown
The seed, that they had garnered in their hearts,
Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.

Into its furrows shall we all be cast,
In the sure faith that we shall rise again
At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,
In the fair gardens of that second birth;
And each bright blossom mingle its perfume
With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth.

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;
This is the field and Acre of our God,
This is the place where human harvests grow.