by Frank Thomas Smith
My sister Faith was first to go,
Her blood was staunched and ceased to flow.
Never was she the worldly type,
And won't return till time is ripe.
My other sister's name is Hope;
Never was she one to mope.
Her eyes, once fawn's, now sadly droop,
She walks with an ancient's wary stoop.
Hard it'll be to linger on
When blissful sister Hope is gone.
Retreat I'll then, I'll take cover,
With my ever constant lover.
A generation will rise and when
My sisters will be born again,
They'll care too much not to persist,
Hope's trembling lips insist.
We three will roam the world's wide web
Repeating what the Savior said,
We'll cast away our mourning clothes,
Leave them where the wild rose grows:
Being heard above the din,
Calling out and drawing in,
Welcoming the circling dove,
Honoring the name of Love.
The Evil One will be here too,
Our waking giving him the cue
His wicked efforts to redouble.
The world will groan: toil and trouble!
Perhaps too few will we three be.
Faith, Hope and Love agree
That human help is needed sorely,
That gods alone must render poorly.
More poetry by this author is available Here. (Scroll down to "Poetry".)