Funeral Poems for a Father

He was not loud about his love;

he showed it in the early start,

the lunchbox packed, the engine fixed,

the steady beat of a working heart.

He taught by doing, not by speech —

how to be fair, how to be strong,

how to keep going when it's hard,

how to admit when you are wrong.

We carry now the things he carried:

the patience and the steady hand,

and though he leaves a quiet house,

we stand because he helped us stand.

Baba, we thank you for the road

you cleared ahead so we could walk;

for every early-morning rise,

for every hard and honest talk.

You were the roof above our heads,

the one who stood against the storm.

Now you may set your burdens down

and let another keep you warm.

We will look after one another

the way you always told us to;

your name will live in how we live —

rest now; the work you did is true.

My father's hands were rough and sure,

made for the soil, the wood, the wire;

they mended what the world had broken

and stoked the household's quiet fire.

They are still now, those working hands,

but everything they ever made —

the fences, fixings, careful repairs —

stands as the legacy he laid.

And when I take a tool in hand

and do a thing the way he would,

I feel him there, beside me still,

and understand that he was good.

He loved the open road, the dawn,

the veld still wet with early dew,

the long horizon calling on,

the sky a wide and honest blue.

So do not mourn him shut away;

think of him out beneath the sun,

at rest now from the working day —

home from the hill, his journey done.

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:

he leadeth me beside the still waters.

He restoreth my soul:

he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,

I will fear no evil: for thou art with me;

thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life:

and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

Do not measure him in money,

in the title or the wage;

measure him in faithful mornings,

in the turning of each page.

He was present. He was steady.

He was there when we were small.

Of the gifts a father gives you,

presence is the best of all.

Lay him down with thanks, not sorrow;

let the grateful tears run free.

He gave us all the years he carried —

rest now, Tata. We are free.