All flesh is grass
and all its goodness like the flower of the field
The grass withers, the flower wilts
and the word of our God stands forever
Indeed, the people are grass.
It's Sunday afternoon. Behind my mower
I do my best to cut the tall grass lower
So that new shoots which to the light aspire
Can see the sun, take strength and reach up higher
And not grow small and stunted in the shade
Of some much older well-established blade.
That is the way the world exists. In truth
Death is a harsh fate for old age, and yet,
it's kind to youth.
Please Lord, let grass remain forever green
In that spot of Thy lawn where I have been.
Author and Curator: Dr. David P. Stern
Mail to Dr.Stern: david("at" symbol)phy6.org .
Last updated 15 May 2002