Each Lost Day Has Its Patron Saint!

For The Glory Born Of Goodness Never Dies, And Its Flag Is Not Half-masted In The Skies.

Never A Lip Is Curved With Pain That Can't Be Kissed Into Smiles Again.

Never A Tear Bedims The Eye That Time And Patience Will Not Dry.

But Still When The Mists Of Doubt Prevail, And We Lie Becalmed By The Shores Of Age, We Hear From The Misty Troubled Shore The Voce Of Children Gone Before. Drawing The Soul To Its Anchorage.

Your Voices Break And Falter In The Darkness, Break, Falter, And Are Still.