by Maurice A. Williams
7/18/2007 / Poetry
His grave still lies beneath the trees
Beside a shady pine.
I go there often. On my knees,
I ask this every time:
Lord, may your grace upon him flow
And cleanse his every flaw.
He will be perfect then, I know.
His soul will then enthrall
Us all, he'd think so much like You.
His body be renewed.
Perfect soul, body too,
They both with grace imbued.
Maurice A. Williams
Author of "Apocalypse: Four Horsemen Three Woes." http://www.geocities.com/mauricewms2003.
Williams is a semi-retired Director of R&D and still works as a consultant. He is married, lives at home, and has four children and six grandchildren.
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