In the cold air of June we walked to the door,
Where inside lay Dad; where he'd walk out no more.
God took him home and gave him the rest
His kidneys had begged for, thirty years at best.
Nothing prepares you for death, not when you
Are fourteen and haven't yet found out the truth
Of the words in that funny old parking lot song:
“You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone”.
In the cold air of June God showed us His care:
His children were loving us, just being there;
The funeral saw them a few hundred strong
Singing praises to God as we sent that saint on.
I've forgotten the hymn that we sang at the last,
But each one that's like it, as I sing I ask,
“Is this that old hymn whose sage words released
The flood of hot tears for that precious life ceased?”
In the cold air of June I make my way home,
Ten years of life older, and bearing a tome
Of experience; as yet an incomplete script,
But a book of God's writing 'bout a soldier equipped
With the shield of his mother: “God works all for good”;
With a quiver of comrades, among whom he's stood,
And marvelled at, cried at, sang and proclaimed
The glory of God and the power of His Name.
In the cold air of June I cannot deny
That this time of year is the time when I cry,
But nor can I ever be silent upon
The great pow'r of God in the life of His sons.
I make my way home from a party for life,
Thanking God for my own, the blessing and strife,
For His mighty hand leads me; His mighty heart loves;
I have life, I have hope, and my Father above.
-- Iain Hart
