Like an old forgotten photograph in
An antique store, you can be had for a song.
How often have I gazed at these captured
Treasures and wondered:
Just who were you? Were you loved?

You have the hands of a craftsman.
With the same sense of awe I ponder
The softly lit chapel, after loved ones have dispersed.
As I gently extinguish the votive candle
Let me never forget:

This life was a gift made by the
One who knows every hair on his head.
Offer a quiet prayer for him
And for those whose tears were shed.

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