Asking God to span the pain

The woes aren’t gone
at Wobegon.
They’re likely to remain.
A bridge went down
near St. Paul’s town
and nothing spans the pain.

The mighty Miss
is all a mess.
Those missing are feared dead.
Its murky depths
conceal who’s left
asleep there on her bed.

It’s so unreal.
That twisted steel
has fed our mares of night.
The mourning lasts
though midday’s past.
It’s such a haunting sight.

And so, good God,
don’t think it odd
such bad news takes a toll.
We bend and break
(for goodness sake)
when grief broadsides our soul.

Please Lord uphold
the weak and bold
and those who will collapse.
Give living grace as loved ones face
the sting of Death’s cruel slaps.