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by Ronald Ferguson © 2022

The hairs of my head, God says are numbered,
But what an onus it is
For the one who must keep the accounting,
Because every day, the problem is,
The loss of hair keeps mounting.

Is it an angel who guards the tally?
It sure is a full time job.
On the pillow, and on the shower floor –
It's enough to make an angel's head throb –
Each time I look, more and more!

Some of my friends, on top, are well tufted,
But some of us look like eggs.
Genetically, that's how we are disposed.
The "clear domes" have hair that has taken legs,
Which has left their tops exposed.

That's the way it is with no turning back,
But it's only a short while
Before to heaven, we zoom to that place,
And in that day I am going to smile,
'Cause there'll be perfect hair above my face.

These old bodies of ours will be remade
As perfection, we'll possess -
No pain, or illness, or death, or weeping;
No heartaches or problems, and no distress,
Found in the Lord's safe keeping.

Metre = 10-7-10-10-7 ABCBC
Copyright reserved

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