STEPPING UP

From it all will come a certain fame,

Changing the spelling of a good man's name,

That to where he stood he can't go back again,

For his view of life will never be the same.

And time will lessen aptitude and will,

As fame directs what he must now fulfill,

The old farm empty on the lonely hill,

Where yet his grave is waiting for him still.

What in his own camp he cannot describe,

Is in another advanced with greater pride,

Tis who he knows who will his fate decide,

For what he was has now all but died.

For one becomes the image of his view,

Or stagnates forever where his heart is true.

Reveal not what you do if it is kind,

Leave all your pride and selfishness behind,

For Charity must never bring a good man fame,

For it will leave his truth distraught and lame.

It is one's duty to give of love and care,

For a moment brief, deliver much repair,

That by it someone benefits by your good,

Though you in silence humbly shed your blood.

For those who died do not have a voice,

And those who live are left with such a choice,

To humbly do their duty without shame,

Ripping not the accolades of fame ...

Unless a Saint one falsely wants to be,

But then you must perform a miracle you see.

Webmaster: Thurman P. Woodfork