BY DOMINIC WIGHTMAN
We walked hand in hand together to the coach – I wore my red school cap
You taught me how to fight; tackle hard and scrap
We celebrated triumphs; bound tight in every loss
Then I was ill and You stayed calm – trusting Jesus on the cross.
I should have died. You said a prayer. Then You died. Gone just like that.
Each day I sense You; face-palming my blunders – cheering when I soar
For Grandpa John the children pray – we all love You to the core
Not done yet, My Father. Wellie to be dished; tyrants to expose
I’ll await your extended hand again – at my time to repose