First, before anyone asks, there’s no special reason for me to publish this sonnet today. I just flipped through one of my notebooks, saw it, and asked myself if I could think of any reason NOT to publish it.
That said, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone who sees this is actively dealing with a miscarriage. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to realize that they are incredibly, depressingly common. The estimated 10-20% of pregnancies that end in a miscarriage sounds like a number until it’s your own friends.
I wrote this sonnet for one of several friends who miscarried a very wanted baby. I’m being intentionally vague about which friend, and even when I wrote this sonnet, for that couple’s privacy. It could be for too many people I know.
We know who holds the power of death and life.
We know who holds the nations in His hand.
Who forges grass blades sharp as any knife,
Who handcrafts every single grain of sand.
We know who breathes bright life into the dust,
Who knits the sinews, fastens them to bone;
Whom we believe, in whom we place our trust,
And who has carved our name in ancient stone.
Before the dawn of Earth, He named the stars.
Before the Sun awoke, He knew us too—
Declared that we’d be His, and He’d be ours,
And knew how brief a life he’d plant in you.
We’ll mourn this life lost while yet in your womb,
Until we meet it by an empty tomb.