For anyone who didn't know my Grandmother passed away the beginning of March. This is a poem that was read at her funeral that I thought and found to be very fulfilling. I hope you all enjoy it as I do. Pat
 
This Old Clay House
 
When I am through with this old clay house of mine,
When no more guide lights through the windows shine,
Just box it up, and lay it away,
With the other clay houses of yesterday;
And with it, my friends, do try if you can,
To bury the wrongs since first I began
To live in this house, bury deep and forget --
I want to be square and our of your debt,
When I meet the grand Architect Supreme
Face to face I want to be clean.
Of course I know it's not too late to mend
A bad builded house when we come to the end
But you who are building - just look over mine
And make your alterations while there is time;
Just study this house, - no tears should be shed,
It's like my clay house when the tenant has fled.
I have lived in this house many days all alone, 
Just waiting, and oh, how I long to go home.
Don't misunderstand me; this old world divine, 
With love, birds, and flowers, and glorious sunshine
Is a wonderful place and a wonderful plan,
And a wonderful, wonderful gift to man.
Yet somehow we feel when the cycle's complete
There are dear ones across we are anxious to meet;
So we open the books and check up the past,
Each item is checked; each page must be clean,
It's the passport we carry to our builder Supreme;
So when I am through with this old house of clay
Just box it up and lay it away;
For the Builder has promised when this house is spent,
To have one all finished with timber I sent
While I lived here in this one. Of course it will be
Exactly as I have builded; you see
It's the kind of material we each send across,
And if we build poorly, 'tis our loss.
You ask what materials we each send across,
'Twas told you long since, by the Great Architect:
"A new commandment I give unto you,
That you love one another, as I have loved you."
So the finest material to send up above
Is clear, straight grained timber of BROTHERLY LOVE.
 
S. Joseph Monck