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The Field

By Miriam Lockhart

Mother Sarah of perfection constant,
Her hand ever held out in chesed,
Holy light glowed from her tent,
Her children forever blessed.

Adam lay at the gate of Paradise,
Waiting for the gathering of souls.
Avraham's desire was so precise
That Sarah's death crown her life's roles.

From her earthly home she went to rest
At the door to worlds beyond the chasm.
Her preparation would be the best
Of the place called Avraham's Bosom.

Her vineyard's roots sank into the earth.
The fruit brought forth joy eternal.
For from them would surely spring the birth
Of the redemptive age supernal.

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