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In Memory of Grace

Dreaming Hill
©2011 Gibbens/Weston


When we set out for Dreaming Hill,
One morning early, bright and still,
The blackbirds sang both loud and shrill
Along the road to Dreaming Hill.

The sky was high and all was well.
Two ravens cried as evening fell
And far away ’cross Eden Dale
We could see clear to Dreaming Hill.

Then in the firelight as we slept,
Out from the midnight robbers crept
And us of all our treasure stripped
And stole away past Dreaming Hill.

So in the rising of the sun
We found our golden gifts all gone
And as poor ones we travelled on
To meet the king on Dreaming Hill.

Deep in the heart of Folly Wood
Where bramble thorns had drawn our blood,
The way it seemed was lost for good
And Dreaming Hill never to be.

Until at last over Trouble Brook
The star stood still and when we looked
Our three hearts in terror shook
To see it shine on Dreaming Hill.

For Dreaming Hill was none too green.
We wondered much what this might mean:
Three crosses tall – what had they seen
Of great things done on Dreaming Hill?

For there was darkness in that place,
And there were laughter, blood and nails,
And dead men walked from open graves,
And all these things were signs of grace.
And all these things were signs of grace.


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