Lewis Findley Poems

Once I was a young man, now I am old.
I once yearned for wintry for hot was in my blood.
Now I yearn for spring, for oft I seem grow cold.
Aye the sun south warm an old man's bones.
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The worst writers in history
Are who are known ad and called hacks
They write the greatest epics.
They are who history treats kindly
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For it is faith
It alone won't wait
The time is now
To the master I bow
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We want Christian. Network television
Repeat repeAt repeAt....
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're - tribution


The first tribute is always positive
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