Thursday, 1 August 2013


This past Sunday I was at my uncle's funeral. He was just about ninety years old. It was a nice funeral, the preacher preached a good message of hope and love. Seeing the body lying there in the coffin brings out the reality of the finality of death. We know that the soul has departed to live eternally with the Lord but the life lived here has ended. No more chances to give your loved one a kiss and tell them "I love you". No more chances to seek or to give forgiveness. What has been left undone remains undone. We can not deny the reality of the finality of death. The Bible says in Ecclesiastes 11:3  and if the tree fall toward the south, or toward the north, in the place where the tree falleth, there it shall be.

Here is a poem that is about the game of baseball but it also fits when thinking about the finality of death.  The poem is  Game Called and is written by Grantland Rice.

Game Called ( by Grantland Rice) 

Game Called. Across the field of play
the dusk has come, the hour is late.
The fight is done and lost or won,
the player files out through the gate.
The tumult dies, the cheer is hushed,
the stands are bare, the park is still.
But through the night there shines the light,
home beyond the silent hill.

Game Called. Where in the golden light
the bugle rolled the reveille.
The shadows creep where night falls deep,
and taps has called the end of play.
The game is done, the score is in,
the final cheer and jeer have passed.
But in the night, beyond the fight,
the player finds his rest at last.

Game Called. Upon the field of life
the darkness gathers far and wide,
the dream is done, the score is spun
that stands forever in the guide.
Nor victory, nor yet defeat
is chalked against the players name.
But down the roll, the final scroll,
shows only how he played the game.

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