He sits on the sidelines

His hair has turned gray.

We pass him by, as if to say,

Sorry, Old Brother, you've had your day.

If we would stop and shake his hand

And tell him we are glad he came,

It would mean so much to a tired old man

Just to feel the warmth of a friendly hand.

He lays no claim to renown or fame.

Only a few remember his name.

We may not know from whence he came,

But he's our brother just the same.

He sowed the seeds for us to reap,

He paved the way so we could meet.

Ever humble yet somewhat proud,

Ever alert to keep his vows.

His stored up wisdom of many years

He leaves to us if we could only hear.

We are Brothers; Let's act as such,

For the years of the aged have seen much.

Debbie Dee Harding Farrow