Grace
It is so poetic, is it not,
That our lives are permiated
With much beauty and memory ;
Some, if not most of which, we forget.
But our lives forever reside in history
Where our life's treasury becomes our legacy.
Our personality maybe most terrific, and
our lives may be as prolific as the budding
Rose in early spring.
Like an orchestra, our song of life is played,
And some tunes and instruments are sang
And played by us , clearly manifesting our
Wills, plans, dreams, and goals.
Notwithstanding, it is equally obvious that
most of the beats of our lives are not
Determined by us alone. I am not an island,
And I do not stand in the winners circle alone.
Were this not true; and if my music of life had
no accompaments, I dread to awake to a different
reality. Because this is true, and were it not for
The Grace of God, there go I.
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