My sister Faith was the first to go,
Her blood was staunched and ceased to flow;
Never was she the worldly type,
She won't return till time is ripe.
My other sister's name is Hope;
Never was she the one to mope,
But her eyes, once fawn's, now droop,
She walks with an ancient's stoop.
Hard it will be to linger on
When glimmering Hope is finally gone;
I'll retreat then, go undercover,
Back to the fold of my constant lover.
He'll care too much not to persist,
Hope's trembling, bloodless lips insist;
A generation from us shall rise,
To counteract the soul's demise.
Heard above the deafning din,
Calling out and drawing in,
We'll welcome home the circling dove,
Who ever honored the name of Love.
We three will roam the world's wide ebb
Repeating what the Saviour said;
We'll cast away our mourning clothes
And leave them where the wild rose grows.
© 2000 Tomasina Frankel
Tomasina Frankel, a former nun, prefers not to give biographical information.
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