Secluded in an old forgotten church yard–
Behind tarnished and peeling paint,
A gathering of voices from days now gone…
Proceeding from woodsmen, farmers—saints!
Words of time–their hallowed meaning—
(None reluctant, timid or shy)
On the lips of this deceased crowd,
Warning how quickly the years pass by!
Hear all, now, their pointed stories
Of faith, sorrows, and things that mend–
Such golden threads between the meeting
Of their beginning …and their end.
Between those two days in each one’s life
Though some cares mattered—many did not…
So, let their headstones stress this point,
Concerning life’s mysterious lot:
What we can and do become
Is what gives grace when life is done