奥巴马悼词全文（英文附后）：
“我们在这里，怀念29位美国人：卡尔?阿克德、杰森?阿金斯、克里斯多佛?贝尔、格利高里?史蒂夫?布洛克、肯尼斯?艾伦?查普曼、罗伯特?克拉克、查 尔斯?蒂莫西?戴维斯、克里?戴维斯、迈克尔?李?埃尔斯维克、威廉?I.格里菲斯、史蒂芬?哈拉、爱德华?迪恩?琼斯、理查德?K.雷恩、威廉姆?罗斯 威尔特?林奇、尼古拉斯?达利尔?麦考斯基、乔?马克姆、罗纳德?李?梅尔、詹姆斯?E.姆尼、亚当?基斯?摩根、雷克斯?L.姆林斯、乔甚?S.纳皮 尔、霍华德?D.佩恩、迪拉德?厄尔?波辛格、乔尔?R.普莱斯、迪华德?斯科特、加里?考拉斯、格罗佛?戴尔?斯金斯、本尼?威灵汉姆以及里奇?沃克 曼。”
无论我、副总统、州长，或是今天致悼词的任何一个人，都不能说出任何话语，可以填补你们因痛失亲人心中的创伤。
尽管我们在哀悼这29条逝去的生命，我们同样也要纪念这29条曾活在世间的生命。
凌晨4点半起床，最迟5点，他们就开始一天的生活，他们在黑暗中工作。穿着工作服和硬头靴，头戴安全帽，静坐着开始一小时的征程，去到五英里远的矿井，唯 一的灯光是从他们头戴的安全帽上发出的，或是进入时矿山沿途的光线。
日以继夜，他们挖掘煤炭，这也是他们劳动的果实，我们对此却不以为然：这照亮一个会议中心的电能；点亮我们教堂或家园、学校、办公室的灯光；让我们国家运 转的能源；让世界维持的能源。
大多时候，他们从黑暗的矿里探出头，眯眼盯着光亮。大多时候，他们从矿里探出身，满是汗水和尘垢。大多时候，他们能够回家。但不是那天。
这些人，这些丈夫、父亲、祖父、弟兄、儿子、叔父、侄子，他们从事这份工作时，并没有忽视其中的风险。他们中的一些已经负伤，一些人眼见朋友受伤。所以， 他们知道有风险。他们的家人也知道。他们知道，在自己去矿上之前，孩子会在夜晚祈祷。他们知道妻子在焦急等待自己的电话，通报今天的任务完成，一切安好。 他们知道，每有紧急新闻播出，或是广播被突然切断，他们的父母会感到莫大的恐惧。
但他们还是离开家园，来到矿里。一些人毕生期盼成为矿工；他们期待步入父辈走过的道路。然而，他们并不是为自己做出的选择。
这艰险的工作，其中巨大的艰辛，在地下度过的时光，都为了家人。都是为了你们；也为了在路上行进中的汽车，为了头顶上天花板的灯光；为了能给孩子的未来一 个机会，日后享受与伴侣的退休生活。这都是期冀能有更好的生活。所以，这些矿工的生活就是追寻美国梦，他们也因此丧命。
在矿里，为了他们的家人，他们自己组成了家庭：庆祝彼此的生日，一同休憩，一同看橄榄球或篮球，一同消磨时间，打猎或是钓鱼。他们可能不总是喜欢这些事 情，但他们喜欢一起去完成。他们喜欢像一个家庭那样去做这些事。他们喜欢像一个社区一样去做这些事。
这也是美国人熟知的一首歌里表达的精神。我想，让大多数人惊讶的是这首歌实际是一名矿工的儿子所写，关于贝克利这个小镇的，关于西弗吉尼亚人民的。这首歌 曲， “靠着我”（Lean on Me）是关于友谊的赞歌，但也是关于社区关于一同相聚的赞歌。
灾难发生的几分钟，几小时，几日之后，这个社区终被外界关注。搜救者，冒着风险在充满沼气和一氧化碳的狭窄地道里搜寻，抱着一线希望去发现一位幸存者。朋 友们打开门廊的灯守夜；悬挂自制的标语上写着， “为我们的矿工和他们的家人祈祷。”邻居们彼此安慰，相扶相依。
我看到了，这就是社区的力量。在灾难随后的几天，电子邮件和信件涌入白宫。邮戳来自全国各地，人们通常都是同一开头：“我很骄傲来自一个矿工的家庭。” “我是一名矿工的儿子。”“我很自豪能成为一名矿工的女
人。”??他们都感到自豪，他们让我关注我们的矿工，为他们祈祷。他们说，不要忘了，矿工维持着美 国的光亮。在这些信件里，他们提出一个很小的要求：不要让这样的事再发生。不要让这事情再发生。
我们怎忍让他们失望？一个依赖矿工的国家怎能不尽全力履行职责保护他们？我们的国家怎能容忍人们仅因工作就付出生命；难道仅仅是因为他们追求美国梦吗？
我们不能让29条逝去的生命回来。他们此刻与主同在。我们在这里的任务，就是防止有生命再在这样的悲剧中逝去。去做我们必须做的，无论个人或是集体，去确 保矿下的安全，向他们对待彼此那样对待我们的矿工，如同一家人。因为我们是一家人，我们都是美国人。我们必须要彼此依靠，守望彼此，爱护彼此，为彼此祈福 祈祷。
今天，我想起一首圣歌，在我们心痛时会想起这首歌。“我虽行过死荫的幽谷，但心无所惧，因你与我同在。你的杖，你的竿，都在安慰我。”
上帝保佑我们的矿工！上帝保佑他们的家人！上帝保佑西弗吉尼亚！上帝保佑美国！
奥巴马悼词英文：
We’re here to memorialize 29 Americans: Carl Acord. Jason Atkins. Christopher Bell. Gregory Steven Brock. Kenneth Allan Chapman. Robert Clark. Charles Timothy Davis. Cory Davis. Michael Lee Elswick. William I. Griffith. Steven Harrah. Edward Dean Jones. Richard K.
Lane. William Roosevelt Lynch. Nicholas Darrell McCroskey. Joe Marcum.
Ronald Lee Maynor. James E. Mooney. Adam Keith Morgan. Rex L. Mullins. Joshua S. Napper. Howard D. Payne. Dillard Earl Persinger. Joel R. Price. Deward Scott. Gary Quarles. Grover Dale Skeens. Benny
Willingham. And Ricky Workman.
Nothing I, or the Vice President, or the Governor, none of the
speakers here today, nothing we say can fill the hole they leave in your hearts, or the absence that they leave in your lives. If any comfort can be found, it can, perhaps, be found by seeking the face of God -- (applause) -- who quiets our troubled minds, a God who mends our broken hearts, a God who eases our mourning souls.
Even as we mourn 29 lives lost, we also remember 29 lives lived. Up at 4:30 a.m., 5:00 in the morning at the latest, they began their day, as they worked, in darkness. In coveralls and hard-toe boots, a
hardhat over their heads, they would sit quietly for their hour-long journey, five miles into a mountain, the only light the lamp on their caps, or the glow from the mantrip they rode in.
Day after day, they would burrow into the coal, the fruits of their labor, what so often we take for granted: the electricity that lights up a convention center; that lights up our church or our home, our school, our office; the energy that powers our country; the energy that powers the world. (Applause.)
And most days they’d emerge from the dark mine, squinting at the light. Most days, they’d emerge, sweaty and dirty and dusted from coal. Most days, they’d come home. But not that day.
These men -– these husbands, fathers, grandfathers, brothers sons, uncles, nephews -– they did not take on their job unaware of the perils. Some of them had already been injured; some of them had seen a friend get hurt. So they understood there were risks. And their families did, too. They knew their kids would say a prayer at night before they left. They knew their wives would wait for a call when their shift ended saying everything was okay. They knew their parents felt a pang of fear every time a breaking news alert came on, or the radio cut in.
But they left for the mines anyway -– some, having waited all their lives to be miners; having longed to follow in the footsteps of their fathers and their grandfathers. And yet, none of them did it for themselves alone.
All that hard work, all that hardship, all the time spent underground, it was all for the families. It was all for you. For a car in the driveway, a roof overhead. For a chance to give their kids
opportunities that they would never know, and enjoy retirement with their spouses. It was all in the hopes of something better. And so these miners lived -– as they died -– in pursuit of the American Dream.
There, in the mines, for their families, they became a family themselves -– sharing birthdays, relaxing together, watching Mountaineers football or basketball together, spending days off together, hunting or fishing. They may not have always loved what they did, said a sister, but they loved doing it together. They loved doing it as a family. They loved doing it as a community.
That’s a spirit that’s reflected in a song that almost every American knows. But it’s a song most people, I think, would be
surprised was actually written by a coal miner’s son about this town, Beckley, about the people of West Virginia. It’s the song, Lean on Me -– an anthem of friendship, but also an anthem of community, of coming together.
That community was revealed for all to see in the minutes, and hours, and days after the tragedy. Rescuers, risking their own safety, scouring narrow tunnels saturated with methane and carbon monoxide, hoping against hope they might find a survivor. Friends keeping porch lights on in a nightly vigil; hanging up homemade signs that read, “Pray for our miners, and their families.” Neighbors consoling each other, and supporting each other and leaning on one another.
I’ve seen it, the strength of that community. In the days that
followed the disaster, emails and letters poured into the White House. Postmarked from different places across the country, they often began the same way: “I am proud to be from a family of miners.” “I am the son of a coal miner.” “I am proud to be a coal miner’s
daughter.” (Applause.) They were always proud, and they asked me to keep our miners in my thoughts, in my prayers. Never forget, they say, miners keep America’s lights on. (Applause.) And then in these letters, they make a simple plea: Don’t let this happen again. (Applause.) Don't let this happen again.
How can we fail them? How can a nation that relies on its miners not do everything in its power to protect them? How can we let anyone in this country put their lives at risk by simply showing up to work; by simply pursuing the American Dream?
We cannot bring back the 29 men we lost. They are with the Lord now. Our task, here on Earth, is to save lives from being lost in another such tragedy; to do what must do, individually and collectively, to assure safe conditions underground -- (applause) -- to treat our miners like they treat each other -- like a family. (Applause.) Because we are all family and we are all Americans. (Applause.) And we have to lean on one another, and look out for one another, and love one another, and pray for one another.
There’s a psalm that comes to mind today -– a psalm that comes to mind, a psalm we often turn to in times of heartache.
“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.”
God bless our miners. (Applause.) God bless their families. God bless West Virginia. (Applause.) And God bless the United States of America. (Applause.)