The silent man who sang with us is gone
ahead to where all harmonies begin
at rest; and now he hears the hidden chords
we quested for at every mass. The cards
he held were dealt by unseen hands
and clutched unseen against his chest, the hints
of who he was so few, his prudence pure.
He died alone, untethered, hardly poor,
a monk he might have made, his sister said,
and nothing that I know of him is sad
except this absence: next to me a hole
that hits each rest on cue, and down a hall
that echoes with his voice he leads us on,
his smile a prayer, his hidden heart in song.
Our church choir lost a core member two weeks ago, a bass beside whom I sang each Sunday, who anchored not just our male section but the entire chorus.
I will miss him. We all will.
I hope to sing “Sicut Cervus” with him once again, perhaps half so well as this group. C.G. will hit every note and in good time.
Thank you Webster
God Bless