The Cross

A simple little wooden cross,
Tells of our sad and tragic loss,
Of loved ones taken all too soon,
And all because of Wittenoom.

Though each cross may look the same,
Yet each bears our loved one’s name,
We stand before each with bowed head,
And not one word needs to be said.

Every cross has its own story,
But now each name lives in glory,
They fought the fight and sadly lost,
And each of us knows at what cost.

We each have our own heart felt pain,
Yet gathered here all can gain,
Comfort in sharing our common grief,
Strength in numbers is a sure belief.

We think upon our shattered dreams,
Life is pointless, or so it seems,
But life will always keep going on,
With memories of those now gone.

Weep not for the plans you’ll not share,
For others now need all your care,
And those lost ones I’m sure would say,
Please think on me when you pray.