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Fields of GraceLife's a winding dirt road, our souls are caked with earthwe're each wand'ring back to, the land of our birthI've walked where pure white lilies, are plentiful and lushand laid a dusty bedroll, in bramble and brushhoisted rum with sailors, who till the restless seathey reap a lonely harvest, of wind and libertysome must be free of chains, so their spirits can give chaseand follow paths of fortune, across fields of gracefrom the eagle and the sparrow, to the bumblebeewings make a mountain walker, take a humble kneeand one whose ev'ry bootprint, is confined to sod and sandmay feel mud that awaits him, is his promised landbut death's a low black cloud, that blocks the sky from viewand spirits don't pass on, they pass on throughso bones laid low may be laid to wastebut their tombs are stepping-stones in fields of gracethere's valleys and there's oceans, each a blessed acrebut there's a higher meadow, with the mansion of the Makerand sure as this world's circle, is rain to river to seathere's a heaven where all, flow to eternityso the drifter and the sailor, thankful for the stars in spaceshall set his foot near lilies, shining in fields of grace(c)2006 Robert George