Let me say that the family involved still tend the grave to this day;
There in the brook, face down he lay;
While the log train slowly continued on its way.
When he fell, he had hit his head.
Yet no one realized that the man was dead.
He'd been to town for some fun and drinking,
(Or so those who found him later were thinking.)
The ride back to the logging camp was pretty rough,
And the train's vibrations probably threw him off'
Two hunters in the woods in a light rain,
Came across his earthly remains.
Who he was they had no idea,
But they knew they couldn't leave him there.
They dug him a grave in the midst of the wood,
With a river rock for a headstone, it looked pretty good.
Every year, these two returned to care for that site,
Clearing the brush and making sure all was right.
They continued this task as long as they could,
Then others took over tending that grave in the woods.
The annual trek requires about an hour all told,
But the satisfaction of serving is worth more than gold'
His name, his family, or the place he called home,
Have, for more than a century, remain unknown.
Only God knows whether he was lost or saved,
But be certain that He knows the man in that grave'
We will all end up like that logger some day;
We will also be forgotten in a similar way.
Our lives should impact the lives around,
So memories will linger, once we're placed in the ground.
Tooting our own horn isn't the point of this story,
But rather, being remembered for displaying God's glory.
June 15, 2006
God Bless all at poetry soup.com keep up the great poems, Amen Robert.