The Graveyard
The town’s family tree lies here,
Guarded by an old iron gate
That creaks in the wind
On the short ride it takes.
Here generations rest together as a history,
Total and complete.
The cold head stones,
moss covered and worn away,
You gaze upon at your feet.
Tranquil and secluded,
On a hill beyond a glen,
Safe from the bustle of the world
And the noise of modern men.
Honored, the ones not forgotten,
For you, flowers bloom in spring;
To the others less fortunate,
Honored only when the church bell rings.
A mourning dove cries for you,
And the breeze warms your resting place.
Those gone before us,
Who look up at God’s face.
No comments:
Post a Comment