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Jeremiah Puckett We carried him to the highland of no-time, A place as lonesome as the caw of crow, Up the sawbriared mountain of slow-climb To reach the place he'd chosen long ago To stay until the prophesy of fire— The second-coming came to claim his soul— Awaiting then the year, the day, the hour He wanted those who brought him here to know He'd be no burden on this mountain's top Nor to those of after-come be in their way Waiting in land too poor to make a crop, Sandstone rock and yellow mountain clay. Salvation his by grace, we left him there Tucked on the mountain to a wind-made prayer. —Billy C. Clark 100 ...

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