Upon a hill, wind-swept and bitter cold,
in milky light of bleak mid-winter’s sun,
we buried Auntie in the frozen wold,
in sure and certain hope, Thy will be done.
Small fingers twined, enfolded in small hands
Is this the church? Is this the steeple tall?
Is this the Shepherd on the hill who stands
with rod and staff to comfort people, all?
At Varrick Street and Houston, down they lay.
No pastures green, just biting wind, pale sun.
Forgive us, Father, of our debts, we pray.
For Brother Montrevil, Thy will be done.
A table set before my enemy;
In paths of righteousness you leadeth me.