When Robert Plant and Jimmy Page entered the chapel, a hush swept through the mourners like a wave. These weren’t just rock gods — they were two grieving souls, walking slowly down the aisle not as Led Zeppelin, but as brothers in sorrow. The weight of loss clung to their shoulders, and as they approached the front, every eye in the room felt the gravity of what was about to unfold.
Jimmy Page cradled his guitar not as an instrument, but as something sacred — a vessel of memory, of history. His fingers brushed the strings absentmindedly, as if trying to find the right notes to carry a goodbye. Robert Plant, once the golden-haired lion of rock, now silvered by time, stepped to the mic. His voice was quiet, tender.
“We came here for Ozzy,” he said. “Because without him, none of us would have had the courage to be who we were.”
And then Jimmy began to play. No fanfare, no effects. Just a slow, aching riff that seemed to bleed straight from the heart of the guitar. Robert joined in, his voice still powerful, still unmistakable — but now cracked with emotion, weathered by grief. It was a bluesy lament, part hymn, part goodbye. A song for a friend, a hero, a brother.
Their performance didn’t need lyrics beyond the music. Every note spoke. Every pause felt like holding back tears. It was as if the room had stepped outside of time, suspended in a shared ache.
When the final chord faded into silence, Robert stepped forward, placed his hand gently on the casket, and whispered, “You’ll always be with us, brother.”
No applause. No sound. Just silence — the kind that follows something sacred, something final. A goodbye wrapped in love, loss, and the echo
of legends.
