The old country preacher stood to speak,
his broken voice sounding weak.
The worn, black bible in his hand
placed on the wooden pulpit stand.
Eyes of tears scan the faithful few,
friends and family in wooden pews.
The only sounds a cough or sneeze,
and blue jays calling in the trees.
Paper fans move to and fro while
impatient children beg to go.
All dressed in their Sunday best
here to lay their own to rest.
Flowing tears for memories past,
honor a life that did not last.
All good memories, nothing bad
a broken family all are sad.
Words of praise for all to hear,
a tribute for a life so dear.
Shaking hands and holding tight,
comfort missing thru the night.
For a young soldier who was brave,
a life to young to need a grave.
For husband and wife with love so strong,
one not here but love not gone.
For mom or dad taken away,
small children left here to stay.
For a grandma loved and held so dear,
for all she gave throughout the years.
Family members gone away,
affecting all of us one day.
If we are blessed and all are here
thank God for them while they are near.
Enjoy and love them while you can,
before the preacher shakes your hand.
Wayne Bowen
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/tribute-15/
