A poem simply sounds the bell, of that which words could never tell.


Oh how that steady marching hour
Deliberates each pace,
Reluctantly, to free those days
Enslaved in its laborious race.

And every man should mark that power
Engraved upon his glorious face
Much more than wound or scar portrays,
Much less to feel disgrace,

For wisdom builds, indeed, a tower,
No place for age to seem debase,
But find, fulfilled and shouting praise,
When climbed by God's redeeming grace.

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