He wore the ash upon his head
my childish eyes, I thought him dead
a blackened cross, creased and stained
of sweat and dirt the mark remained.
I glanced again, i’m not sure why
partly out of foolish eyes
prying back these feeble thoughts
of how the dead could somehow walk
I gripped my father’s hand real tight
as the moon shone down on that night
stained glass, an aged building bright
with church goers streaming, it was a sight.
With reassurance my father said,
be not afraid, they are not dead
though on that night an organ wailed
and we walked a pilgrim’s trail.
A cross is smeared upon their head
much alive, though some are dead
a reminder to this heart so true
to love and serve God, now…will you?
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