To console those who mourn in Zion,
To give them beauty for ashes, The oil of joy for mourning, The garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness; That they may be called trees of righteousness, The planting of the Lord, that He may be glorified.

Isaiah 61:3

Don’t throw my ashes to the wind
which chills the bone, don’t let it in;
that old blower who tosses about
aged trees as stormy seas shout.
Let butterfly wings flutter my ash
in golden garden gates that flash.

Don’t hold my ashes when we’re apart.
Instead, tuck memories in your heart
walk through a lush, green wood long;
seek the warming sun, hear bird’s song.
In His great Light, that’s where I’ll be;
my constant prayer that you’ll join me.

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