Traveler On The Path

Poem by Sylvia Correa

Life is so precious, and so very short.
But, nothing more precious than going home to our
Lord.

Doctor’s appointments every Tuesday at two.
Prescriptions to fill, a supply for a month, just
won’t do.

Symptoms are painful, and their wearing her down.
And the cure is much worst, to a bed she is bound.

As I watch her asleep and resting,
I should’ve been sadder.
But nothing on earth, could ever
Have made her better.

So the heavens have opened,
For and Angel of our own.
And the Lord held out his hand,
And said, “Now, lets go Home.”