t h e f i n a l i n s p e c t i o
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The Marine stood and faced
God,
Which must always come to pass.
He hoped his
shoes were shining,
Just as brightly
as his brass.
"Step forward now, Marine,
How shall I deal
with you?
Have you always turned the other
cheek?
To My Church have
you been true?"
The soldier
squared his shoulders and said,
"No, Lord, I
guess I ain't.
Because those of us who carry guns,
Can't always be a saint.
I've had to work
most Sundays,
And at times my talk was tough.
And sometimes I've been violent,
Because the world is awfully rough.
But, I never took
a penny,
That wasn't mine
to keep...
Though I worked a lot of overtime,
When the bills
got just too steep.
And I never passed a cry for help,
Though at times I shook with fear.
And sometimes, God, forgive me,
I've wept unmanly tears.
I know I don't deserve a place,
Among the people
here.
They never wanted
me around,
Except to calm their fears
If you've a place for me here, Lord,
It needn't be so grand.
I never expected
or had too much,
But if you don't, I'll understand.
There was a silence all around the
throne,
Where the saints
had often trod.
As the Marine
waited quietly,
For the judgment of his God.
"Step forward now, you Marine,
You've borne your
burdens well.
Walk peacefully on Heaven's
streets,
You've done your time in
Hell."