ONE DAY four years ago, Hugh Campbell-O’Neill, who was 9½ years old, the son of friends of mine, was cycling to school. He fell off his bike, struck his head, and never regained consciousness. He died six days later.

His parents were heart-broken. To cope, his father clung in part to a prayer that he had heard first on the radio when he was young himself, even before religious faith had meant much to him. It is The Song of Simeon, or Nunc dimittis, with its haunting opening line: “Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.” He did not feel that Hugh’s death had been peaceful at all, nor was he at peace himself.

This prayer is a daily part of Anglican evensong, of compline in the Catholic Divine Office, and we hear it in church in context next Wednesday, the Feast of the Presentation of our Lord.

Mary and Joseph in obedience to the law of the Lord have brought their newborn child to the Temple to give thanks for his safe delivery. There they meet Simeon, an old man, who, it was said, had been promised that he would not die until he had seen the Messiah. He takes the child in his arms and says:

Between Hugh’s death and his funeral, his father scarcely slept. One night, while he lay awake, he said this prayer again and then remembered that Hugh had written something about it. The next morning he checked the boy’s school RE jotter and found he was right. Six months earlier Hugh had written: “My favourite story about Mary is the Presentation. When Mary and Joseph take Jesus to the temple and the oldest man ever tells Mary that she and Jesus are going to suffer a lot.”

Why will they suffer? Simeon goes on to describe Jesus as a sign which will be rejected and refers to a sword which will pierce through Mary's soul. These words are not just a prophecy of Jesus’s rejection at his passion or Mary’s grief at the Crucifixion of her son. They go deeper. They indicate that this life will reveal people’s dispositions. At a time of crisis, some will accept Him, others turn away. Their response will lay bare the thoughts of their hearts, their deepest selves. What about us?

Crisis can take many forms. Recently it has come as natural disaster. These past weeks have shown us that on a scale which leaves the imagination floundering. We hear of separation, destruction, death, and disease.

And as the imagination reels, we also hear angry questions. How could God let this happen? If almighty God is willing to prevent evil, but not able, then he is not almighty after all. Divine omnipotence, seen in these terms, is, of course, trivial: its god is not God, but Superman, achieving with extra power what ordinary human beings cannot. Whatever else divine power may be like, it is not like that. But the questions reveal distress, a loss of peace. That is understandable. But do they also define our disposition? We may feel overwhelmed, embittered, and trapped. Grief can hold us hostage. Are we tempted to abandon belief?

The child in Simeon’s arms has a message for us. He came to reveal a love which perseveres, however terrible the circumstances. Whatever the tragedy, we must not yield. We hang on with love, not bitterness.

That will not wipe the pain away all at once, but little by little peace will come. Hugh’s father, still touched by sorrow all these years later, has nevertheless written: “I daydream that the first person Hugh met after he died was Simeon, and as I look forward to my own death I hope that God’s mercy will allow Hugh to meet me and lead me to the light.” May all those whom we have loved and lost rise up to greet us and lead us to that same light.

Monsignor Roderick Strange is Rector of the Pontifical Beda College, Rome