Chur – Grisons – Funeral Service – Death is already pressing on his heart and outside the dawn is dawning!

Prayer and Meditation

It's so muggy inside the room. The patient lies on the hot bed. He spent the night in a fever. His heart is tired, his eyes are awake. He listens to the hourly running sand, he holds the watch in his white hand. Counts the blows she pecks, he investigates how the sage advances. It asks him if he's still alive when the wise man reaches the black three. The warden sits patiently, waiting until it's all over.

Death is already pressing on his heart and outside the dawn is dawning. The spring day climbs on the windows, girls and birds wake up. The earth laughs in love light, Pentecost bells herald the bridal party. Singing lads march across the field into the blooming, ringing world. And it's getting quieter inside. The old woman comes up to the patient, her hands folded tightly. She pulls the sheet over his face. Then she goes away. It's silent and empty and not a single eye is awake inside.

Funeral Orator - Chur - Grisons

You no longer believed in happy days, sorrow that had passed by the statute of limitations never let you recover. Motherhood was too difficult for you, life had been too hard for you. He sat with you in his last love obligation. One more night, one more was given! That too ran out; then came the morning light. "My good man, how I would like to live!" He listened quietly to the gentle words as they hit his ear in anxious pauses: "Take care of the child - I'm dying, sweet man." I sleep.”

And then nothing; - you never woke up, your eye broke, the world became more and more gloomy. The breath of God blew through the room, your child cried out, and then you were dead. But I can't bear the fact that the sun is shining like it used to. That as in the days of your life the clocks tick, the bells chime, day and night change uniformly.

That when the lights of the day fade away, how usually the evening unites us. And that where your chair used to stand, others have already found their places, and nothing seems to miss you. Meanwhile, from the bars of the bars weave narrow and sparse moonstripes down into your tomb and walk over your coffin with eerily gloomy life.