An Ode To My Grandpa
More rocks than soil on those flinty hills
Where he tilled the grudging land.
He chopped the sprouts and manned the plow,
With cracked and callused hands.
No stranger to adversity,
Through hard and bitter years
He wet the dusty, stony ground
With a poor man’s sweat and tears.
He was not a man you’d hear complain,
Though hard times dogged his trail.
He faced the foe unflinchingly;
His courage never failed.
He cried unto his unseen Friend,
A Friend who always hears--
To the One who sees and understands
A poor man's sweat and tears.
The legacy he left behind
Was not of wealth or fame.
On history’s golden pages
You will not find his name.
He lived a simple, honest life,
In a world that little cares.
His name was written in the dust
In a poor man's sweat and tears.
No rocks, no sprouts, no callused hands
Where he safely dwells today,
In that everlasting Eden,
Beyond the Milky Way.
Where hope ends in reality
And joy relieves all fears--
A garden where no one is poor--
And no more sweat and tears.
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