We've lost yet another decent, so very decent, man:
Jeremiah Denton was 89 years old.
I found this poem, written during his incarceration in Vietnam and right after a particularly brutal session of torture. It was published in his book titled "When Hell Was In Session" and written for his men during Easter.
It reveals much about what gave this man amongst men strength:
"The soldiers stare, then drift away,
Young John finds nothing he can say,
The veil is rent; the deed is done;
And Mary holds her only son.
His limbs grow stiff; the night grows cold,
But naught can loose that mother’s hold.
Her gentle, anguished eyes seem blind,
Who knows what thoughts run through her mind?
Perhaps she thinks of last week’s palms,
With cheering thousands off’ring alms
Or dreams of Cana on the day
She nagged him till she got her way.
Her face shows grief but not despair,
Her head, though bowed, has faith to spare,
For even now she could suppose
His thorns might somehow yield a rose.
Her life with Him was full of signs
That God writes straight with crooked lines.
Dark clouds can hide the rising sun,
And all seem lost, when all is won!"
God rest Jeremiah Denton, and raise up more men like him.