Hearts we've lost, but momentarilly
Hands, let go of, for now
By which pain-count, methodical
Is clocked up; throbbed for brow.
Unwarmed, unwaved Death's gate through. Still
They bear our love's record.
Now waits, midst which earth-smiled on debt
Who's owed praise of the Blest
Our father, brother and chum - best:
The Lord, The Lord, The Lord.
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