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A Father

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His shoulders are a little bent,His youthful force a trifle spent,But he's the finest man I know,With heart of gold and hair of snow.

He's seldom cross and never mean;He's always been so good and clean;I only hope I'll always beAs kind to him as he's to me.

Sometimes he's tired and seems forlorn,His happy face is lined and worn;Yet he can smile when things are bad:That's why I like my gray-haired dad.

He doesn't ask the world for much&md;Just comfort, friendliness, and such;But from the things I've heard him say,I know it's up to me to pay.

For all the deeds he's done for meSince I sat rocking on his knee;Oh, not in dollars, dimes, or cents&md;That's not a father's recompense.

Nor does he worship wealth and fame&md;He'd have me honor Jesus' name.