Photo by Linda Vible
Guards At The Bridge
I dreamed I was dead, my life done,
People were marching, one by one,
Marching to a wide river with a long bridge,
I could hear celebrating just over the ridge.
This wasn’t like the story I was told,
The bridge was huge and made of gold,
At the bridge armed soldier guards stood,
I started to pass across as I thought I should.
When one of the soldiers caught my eye,
I had known him and I had seen him die,
’Bill, old buddy,’ I said, ‘it’s good to see you here.'
He smiled at me and I saw the trickle of a tear.
‘Thanks,’ he said 'for keeping me within your heart.'
He handed me his rifle and started to depart.
‘Wait Bill, I want to go on across beside you,
don’t leave me here, I don’t know what to do.'
He smiled, ‘These are the last steps of the last mile
as I did, and we all, you must stand guard here awhile;
be ever faithful, be ever watchful, be ever true
until across comes a brother who has remembered you.'
©Faye Sizemore August 28 2002
"When the Saints Go Marching In" by Harry Todd
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