Death as Gardener

ברוך אתה ה', אלוהינו מלך העולם, מקור החיים.

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Why are we so scared of Death?
Why is our Reaper grim?
Is She not the diligent gardener, 
tenderly tending to our lives each day,
harvesting us only when we have fully blossomed?

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If the L-rd is my shepherd, Death is my farmer. 
Aren’t we all Jacob’s seed, 
sewn in the very dust to which we return?

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And, as we grow and sprout, 
Death bides and tends.
She waters and feeds.
She prunes our emerald leaves 
and primps our ruby petals.

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She does not rush us. 
She raises us.
And as we flower and flourish,
She merely looks on, in patient pride.

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When we see Death - 
not as villain but as friend,
her scythe as tool and not weapon -
we see that She doesn’t dress in flowing black
to intimidate, but to join us mourners.

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I am not scared of Death.
She is not vicious nor vindictive.
She is a delicate caretaker,
patiently waiting for us to flower, 
grinning with pride as She sees our fruits of Her labors.

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No, I am not scared of Death.
She knows no hurry, 
relishing with quiet satisfaction,
eyes glistening 
as she watches the life She raised,
until we are ready:
until our prime.
Until after it. 
Until She harvests just before the languish. 
Until She is so taken aback by our growth
that She delays too long
and the wilting begins. 

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And then - and only then -
Never too soon, though sometimes
too late,
She take us by the hand,
rubbing our palm with her silvery thumb,
and guides us slowly 
“To gather us to our kin.”

No, I don’t fear Death.
Hers is the last strange face I’ll see
before I’m surrounded again 
by those she guided before me
and we are joined later by those I left, too.
Why fear the One who reunites us?

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ברוכה את הליכה, גננת החיים ומדריכת הרפאים.

Blessed are you, Death, gardener of the living

and guide to the dead.