Generations from now, your mark made upon God’s green earth,
After dozens of celebrations of your day of birth,
On that day when you, old now, exhale your last whispered breath,
And the bed on which you recline becomes your bed of death,
When your poor wingless soul is snatched up in your angel’s flight,
And naught but our Lady’s mantle guards you ‘gainst the cold night,
When you find yourself stripped before the Just Judge and His throne,
And now without defense are made all your past sins to own,
When the book of your life is read, when there rings in your ears
Your virtues and your vices, strengths and stumbles, all your years,
When there’s room no longer for excuses, appeals, or sighs,
When through your tears you are forced to meet His great fire-lit eyes,
You need not wonder how He’ll greet you; I know it, I think:
“Thanks daughter, for I was thirsty, and you gave Me to drink.”
For Grace
