At the Graveyard

At the cross the ground is level Love has no rank. Love saves justly, reaching all, Caring enough to overlook rank. At the graveyard though the ground is not level one thing is for sure, Young and old are all stone. Peace is for sure. Still at the graveyard, the neat and the clumsy are alike. When the body degrades, it has no thought of who was a lady or gentleman! There is no expert, the oppressed are set free. There is no anger, nor tempers. All is still, at rest, at peace. At the cross the ground is level at the graveyard it is not. The cross is an abode for pilgrims. And at the graveyard is a waiting post. The wise stop by the cross to change their future. The unwise stop by the graveyard to rest with an uncertain future.