The memory of that casket each day,
It haunts me in all I do every way,
My heart is tortured in a tearful way,
Mom knows, allows these tears to fall each day,
We are consoled, is the Creator’s way,
Little do I know of our Master’s way,
Could my Dad be craving in his own grave?
Someday we’ll know why one is being laid,
I recall, soil on my hand, from the spade,
From Nature’s soil he came, now, farewell he bade.