I bless you sons
And gather feet up
Around me in my bed.
So little time until
The final lowering
Of my head.

And how I see
That naught a promise
Of my God’s good will
Has failed me
In this mortal mill.
The wheat is ready.
The garner waits.
And I scarce notice
All the lies and hates
That marred my trek.
The leg still hurts.
An angel’s work
That left my schemes
A wreck.

Wrestled, I did
With the Heavenlies
Til break of day.
Lost, but came out
A Prince
From meanest clay.

(The one-time cheat and schemer weeps as he recalls Grace’s good hand to him.)

Doug Blair, Waterloo, Ontario


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