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Portrait of the Artist as a Lone Tree


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Moscar Lodge

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I drive, half-dazed, from hypocrites whose sting
has struck the strength from flesh and bone; I flee –
where Father dear can take me on his knee,
and whisper words to which my hopes can cling.
But as the engine dies, I find that I
have found a place I never knew before;
high upon hills that knock on heaven’s door,
against the half-lit dull and sullen sky.
On calling out, reply – not fire, but tears;
the moment that I asked to see your face,
great single tears came raining from your face,
the sky; I will remember through the years -
when I was lonely, lost without a word,
You showed me every thought was seen and heard.

Wind whistled through the wires
and cast your name upon the rain;
when tears from God shall come at call,
I shall not doubt again.

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