My Boy
The grass and flowers wither,
The wind flows through my hair.
Oh, how this all this reminds me
Of my suffering and of my pain,
Of he who’ll never breathe again.
The wise men do not stay here.
They know of the cruelties
This world has to offer.
But it is also so full of joy.
You experienced none, my boy.
You are with my Lord and Savior
And not down here with fools.
They are the ones who start trouble.
The wisest of the wise are with God.
Never again, my boy, will you trod.
I love you, child; you were wise.
Wise ones do not put on a fight.
They open their arms to God
Ready to head on home.
They come and go like cod.
Yet we are left to grieve.
So, I often say things like,
“ Yes! My child is sleeping!
He is asleep in his little bed!”
Yet I know he is cold and dead.
