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.