You Don’t Know How I Feel
You don’t know how I feel–please don’t tell me that you do.
There’s just one way to know–have you lost a child too?
“You’ll have another child”–must I hear this each day?
Can I get another mother, too, if mine should pass away?
Don’t say it was “God’s will”–that’s not the God I know.
Would God on purpose break my heart, then watch as my tears flow?
“You have an angel in heaven–a precious child above.”
But, tell me, to whom here on earth shall I give this love?
“Aren’t you better yet?” Is that what I heard you say?
No! A part of my heart aches–I’ll always feel some pain.
You think that silence is kind, but it hurts me even more.
I want to talk about my child who has gone through death’s door.
Don’t say these things to me, although you do mean well.
They do not take my pain away; must go through the hell.
I will get better slow but sure–and it helps to have you near,
But a simple “I’m sorry you lost your child” is all I need to hear.