No tears are as painful as our ingratitude
made plain when the blessed have gone;
how sweetly we laughed them into boxes
and rounded their unworldly corners.
Some will never know the good have gone.
Their family will sing praise, as they grieve.
The lives they loved give thanks, now,
who taught themselves they'd never leave;
So we ought sing, as our dear departed,
hymns to Jesus in our love cast outward.
Every saint leaves behind a second chance
to learn that gentle song which offers praise.