Dad
My memories of my Dad are few
He rarely was at home to do,
So I remember what I can
Of him they called "the traveling man."
He'd ride the rails and preach the word
Believing some had never heard.
God had called him to this work -
A task he felt dared not shirk.
The postcards came from near and far
His picture - waving from the car,
His straw hat tipped - His suit of white
Doing what he felt was right.
He's been gone for many years,
This man of sorrow - man of tears.
He died alone so far away
No family there to watch and pray.
Sometimes I visit him at rest
And ponder if his choice was best.
The photos and the cards are here
All that remain from yesteryear.
Dare we judge a person's life -
Even if we're child or wife?
No! God knows each person's plan,
And He's the judge of every man.
by Marie W. Powell
Dad
My memories of my Dad are few
He rarely was at home to do,
So I remember what I can
Of him they called "the traveling man."
He'd ride the rails and preach the word
Believing some had never heard.
God had called him to this work -
A task he felt dared not shirk.
The postcards came from near and far
His picture - waving from the car,
His straw hat tipped - His suit of white
Doing what he felt was right.
He's been gone for many years,
This man of sorrow - man of tears.
He died alone so far away
No family there to watch and pray.
Sometimes I visit him at rest
And ponder if his choice was best.
The photos and the cards are here
All that remain from yesteryear.
Dare we judge a person's life -
Even if we're child or wife?
No! God knows each person's plan,
And He's the judge of every man.
by Marie W. Powell
