The benevolent caretaker tends the grounds,
He listens to hear the familiar sounds,
The shaken leaves and mourning doves,
The picks and shovels in workman’s gloves.
He trims the hedge and sweeps the stones,
That mark the beds of sleeping bones,
Then pauses where a child reposes,
To place a bouquet of faded roses.
As he swings the heavy mower’s sickle
In harmony, we hear him whistle,
A haunting hymn by most forgotten,
His grizzled face begins to soften.
And there among the whitened stone
The tears he shed are all but gone
These castoffs of this human race,
Are yet the recipients of God’s good grace.
Thus he labor’s throughout the day,
Then stops at noon to kneel and pray,
A habit of a good and careful man,
Submitting to God’s perfect plan.
His job he tends with gent’list care
And in his diligence, he doth not spare,
But presses on till all is done,
Oft times well past the set of Sun.
And if he could adjust each star
He’d search the heavens from afar,
But the Lord doth not require his hand,
Still, never would his reprimand.
O’ that all could be as kind,
To care for those lives left behind,
For we are all caretakers too,
In everything, we say and do.
S.E. Johnson copyright 2015