Sometimes the angels go searching
For the graves of the sons of God.
They traverse the reaching mountains,
The sea, and the rolling sod.
They never on earth would find them
By the marks we so long have known,
For they never stop to decipher
Our records in bronze and stone.
They find the graves of God’s children
By the monuments builded fair
Through years of struggle and toiling
By the hands that are buried there
Or words that were fitly spoken,
Of service devoted, true.
We mortals may never see them,
But God’s messengers always do.