Our imagining's are not yet born, nor die do we, but rest...this flesh, doth part away...that, when we wake again, what ever think'th we, may be. For then, gain thou, the nature of an angel kind, with silent step, a body bright, a mind of light...a soul as gold, as glorious as the sun.
Amen!
Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico
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