Look down, little baby. there she sleeps in that modest, open casket, inhaling all her graces and hallelujahs in her serene passage to the good Lord.

a heaven stirrer. the virtuous, the excellent was in her name, know her name was soul. ARETHA, we called her.

Here she is, not frail of limbs or disavowed of good health anymore but an universal chanteuse now, invoking a thousand voices of body and soul. tell her in spirit to sleep well and relieve one last blessing, and make you the first supplicant to spread the word, of the glory of the kingdom that she sang blissfully about.

Her daddy preached, pearls of wisdom forming a bridge to enfranchisement, stirring the first twelve notes in her and a papillon rose. How glorious her own share in this world then, to be raised as a hierophant and unite diverse hearts of a thousand secular congregations.

Blessed be the baby, for you kissed her forehead and touched her feet and in this last mass, call her queen, call her grandma, call her the singer of mortals and anoint her in the order of love and reverence.

What life is bigger than the soul then, what can death defeat in her? Hair, face, limbs and adornments all subsumed and consumed by the voice that I made my own, and passed it down to your mother and now it rests with you. The virtuous and excellent one. ARETHA, daughter of the most high. She smiles at you and her vocal cords chime in yours.