I remember the first time I thought I might die. A foreign virus had me in its stranglehold. I was in an anguishing, fevery way—and that, a continent from home.
The summer I was 19 was the first time, among a handful of times by now that I prayed,
“Lord, if you won’t heal me, please take me home.”
It wasn’t my time to go home. After a week, I got off my sick bed running and leaping and praising God.
But I did not write a poem.
Fast forward 30 years. Last night, I read the poem I wish I had written.
The Poem I Wish I Wrote
Dorothy L. Sayers (1893-1957) was an English author and lay theologian. She wrote this poem at 18 after a severe case of measles, that nearly took her life.
“Hymn in Contemplation of Sudden Death”
Lord, if this night my journey end,
I thank Thee first for many a friend,
The sturdy and unquestioned piers
That run beneath my bridge of years.
Next, for the power Thou given me
To view the whole world mirthfully,
For laughter, paraclete of pain,
Like April suns across the rain.
Also that, being not too wise
To do things foolish in folks’ eyes,
I gained experience by this,
And saw life somewhat as it is.
Next for the joy of labor done
And burdens shouldered in the sun;
Not less, for shame of labor lost,
And meekness born of a barren boast.
For every fair and useless thing
That bids us pause from laboring
To look and find the larkspur blue
And marigolds of a different hue;
For eyes to see and ears to hear,
For tongue to speak and news to bear,
For hands to handle, feet to go,
For life, I give Thee thanks also.
For all things merry, quaint and strange,
For sound and silence, strength, and change,
At last, for death, which only gives
Value to every thing that lives;
For these, good Lord, that madest me,
I praise Thy name; since, verily,
I of my joy have had no dearth,
Though this night were my last on earth.
Sayers’ poem was published in The Oxford Magazine on November 5, 1915
Afterward: How did I come across this poem?
I’ve mostly had my nose in Wallace’s Greek Grammar (Greek III exegesis is no joke!) and Frankenstein (who knew this would be such a timely book club read?) the past few weeks.
Last night, with Greek homework and book club complete, I indulged.
My bedtime pleasure was the last two chapters of “Dorothy L Sayers: Her Life and Soul,” by her friend, Barbara Reynolds.
On page 364, Reynolds recounts a friend’s visit with Dorothy two days before she died. Dorothy was her usual, brisk, vital, amusing, almost exuberant, self, full of plans for the future . . .”
Then Reynolds shared the poem.
The poem I wish I wrote.
Why now do I share this poem?
Because man knows not his time.
And because a good, young friend of mine is declining chemo for the cancer that’s back.
Because, as of last week, four good friends’ dads have so soon died in 2025.
Because I’m right there with Dorothy L. in thanking God for many a sturdy, unquestioned friend. You know who you are. I thank God for you.
“The sturdy and unquestioned piers
That run beneath my bridge of years.”
But more. Because in life, and in death, the Lord is worthy of praise.
Because come what may, God deserves my thanks.
“Blessed be the Lord! For he has heard the voice of my pleas for mercy.
The Lord is my strength and my shield; in him my heart trusts, and I am helped; my heart exults, and with my song I give thanks to him.”
—Psalm 28:6-7
Brilliant
Dorothy L. was a bright light and a useful vessel. As are you, sister.