Twas grace that struck a cord in me of late.
Grace of your "truths" and abled youth, short lived.
The truths to steer a ship through depths of hate,
Torn by the split of your children, short lived.
Be ambled grace that seats you on your "throne",
of whitened stone and blackened ash, laid here.
Looking out from your temple (sits alone),
My Captain you fight for beliefs so dear.
Blood Spilled upon your strip'd gown, so torn,
By your kids' hands so keen to pull the thread.
O' My Father for whom I mourn!
The words you spake live on whilst you are dead.
But Ho! I sing, "My Father lives on!"
Live on! My Captain steering straight. Live on!