|
|
| Back Home | |||||||||
|
| ||||||||
|
|
||||||||
|
By Ashley Ross He sits in his chair with wheels Every Saturday when I see him the pain in my heart heals. His strength urges and pushes me to go on, His voice is a whisper, a distant song. The words he speaks are a healing for me, The thing's he says makes me see. How my life is not so bad, He helps me appreciate the things I've had. To have his legs taken from him, To loose such a thing as a limb. Yet, he keeps going with his head held high, His strength so strong, it makes me want to cry. He asks for others healing in his talks with God above, This man in his heart must have so much love. I scream a prayer as a lay on my floor, God, help me have strength like Mr. Moore. | |||||||||
|
|||||||||
|
|||||||||
|
|||||||||