My words are all as pale as shock and grief
upon the dead man’s face before he dies
from loss of blood or loss of his belief
in godly grace or truth or even lies
She thinks I’m strong because my stoic face
is not as pale as all my words of gray
but color never could nor will replace
the warmth, the dawn, the memory of the day
When all I knew and all that could be known
was love as real and living as a child
who knows that he will never be alone
on whom the gift of godly grace has smiled
until he finds the strength of love is weak
and all his words have failed, too pale to speak