The man who burned the bricks,
to build his little church,
also built a family home,
by the creek down in the birch.
Taught his family every week
with sermons full of praise.
teaching them their values
by showing them his ways.
Calloused hands worked the clay,
to build a better life,
but there came a frigid winter
and that year he lost his wife.
The family was in mourning
from the loss that came their way,
laying mother in the earth,
by the church, on Christmas day.
But he never stopped believing,
in his faith that was so real,
giving thanks for each new day,
saying grace at every meal.
Growing old while burning bricks,
he stayed there by the creek,
gazing at aged photographs
as tears stream down his cheek.
He dreamt of his loving wife,
this helped to soothe his scars.
He always held her tenderly,
as they danced among the stars.
Memories of his children
how they’d grown before his eyes,
yet one by one they left him too,
meeting mother in the skies.
Old bible pages worn from age;
tear stained on faded ink,
he read the Word on every night,
this helped him stay in sync.
His soul was like a beacon,
lighting up the darkest nights,
never straying from his path,
while rising to new heights.
I just can’t help but wonder,
why he stayed there all those years.
Was it because of his little church,
or of all his saddened tears?
Wrinkled man with weathered hands
that prayed upon his knees,
praising God for everything,
did this man hold heavens keys?
The story goes, at ninety one,
when they laid him in the ground.
Lightening clashed; thunder roared
a poignant awesome sound.
And when the storm had ended,
they saw carved into his stone,
“Through all his life this preacher man,
had knelt before my throne”.
Adding your comment:
thank you
Thank you...
