By James Tresner
Solemn strike of foot on rock,
A line of workers stretching out of sight
Over a hill, toward a hill moving.
The hope is gone, died with a word, Yes, that was his jewel.
Died for a word as well.
The declining sun throws great rock-twisted shadows
of the workers across the land as they carry him.
It would be easier to mourn if the footing were more
steady-if the smell of death were less pronounced.
But there was nothing ever easy about the man
Not in life, not in work, not in death.
He drove himself, or was driven, maybe, by something
bigger than himself.
There is little rest for a man who builds a house for God.
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