They come…they pass
To deck the grass
Where once fore-fathers bled
A breath, a sigh
A tear-dimmed eye
A bowing of the head
A little toil
Handful of spoil
A little joy and strife
Before we face
The God of grace
And the measure of our life
No return
We cannot burn
A moment or a day
But we can cope
With one true Hope
That never fades away
How swift they pass
Our days as grass…
Soon lie in fields to burn
The path we tread
Leads not to the dead
But to a place of no return…
Janet~
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Thank-you for stopping by my porch! I hope you were blessed!