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The Lutheran dead at Greenwich and McCants Slumber on—unperturbed—below the mowing blade. Still walled, those rich—effaced the poorer stones— Mute where deafer ears and duller minds have ceased To think on these, the Lutheran dead at Greenwich and McCants. They rest within their little walls—afford them hope of glory— Sleep fortified from neighbor, Jesus, friend— Only family’s invited; here to landscape’s Not permitted by perimeter.
You Lutherans, whose remnants indicate Our Savior and the prophets spoke a true and mighty German high Will find your walls providing scant salvation And your Gates proclaiming this for Praise Of your little city in the earth: Alles wird vergessen. You there, “Asleep in Jesus,” now awake to see Your walls asunder, yourselves now greeted By the black flock, reanimate, of that adjoining field Who, once barred by dint of negritude, Now freely cross your fence by blessed entropy. And should you all rise bodily at the Last, Know this, ye walled Elect: I expect that Heaven holds as dear The cycling Hindus scattered by their ash And all who forsook rite for truer class. To molder in this earth there is no shame. You Lutherans, did you expect the names Of you and your beloved to go on, Perpetually beloved in stony evensong? The yard has filled, upkeep is dear, Perished are the mourners, and greater people to be sure have lived. And when I die, do not lay me in such graves as these With German angels and Death’s still platitudes. Bury me unmarked, and let there be a musical remembrance, Perhaps plant a Tree? But do not edge, No herbicides, no marker especially. Find a way to let go peacefully, Erecting only memory. Scott Curry College of Medicine |