Vivian I. Lord
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An old man limps up the lane
Footsore, tired and sweaty with pain,
Stops, lays down his crutches
Sit down upon the church steps to wait in vain. Not a soul upon the sidewalks,
Not a sound of bell nor hymn,
Dimly wonders, what has happened.
He can't seem to comprehend, Spies a notice on the church door,
Hobblers closer, mutter "never heard the like afore".
"Him a takin his vacation,
Church has closed its very doors. Wonder if when I get to heaven,
And I totter up those golden stairs,
And I reach the pearly gates,
Will St. Peter be awaitin there? ...