If dogs could talk, I've often thought,
the stories they could tell.
But with their eyes, they say a lot,
to us, their lives reveal.
And what if God, would take their souls,
and passed them down again.
Then dogs would be a history book,
of time without an end.
Such a dog, I'm sure I knew,
Duke was his given name.
And through his eyes, his mournful eyes,
his previous lives proclaimed.
He'd been around five thousand years,
or maybe even more.
He knew what's surely coming down,
He'd seen it all before.
This strange and shy, retreating dog,
his distance always kept.
And while I couldn't touch his coat,
his eyes on me transfixed.
He told me of the days gone by,
about the things he'd seen.
Of peace and war and love and hate,
like visions in a dream.
Through his eyes I saw the past,
his thoughtful eyes would say,
To a manger, I drew near,
upon a Christmas day.
Of wonderment, the small Christ Child,
by Heavenly Hosts proclaimed.
Peace on earth, good will toward man,
Jesus was his name.
He told me of the hope of man,
the Messiah finally came.
But then an evil, maddened crowd,
on him, their sins would blame.
And finally then, I understood,
his sad and mournful eyes.
For this poor beast was standing near,
when our Savior died.
The poor old dog, so wracked with pain,
he'd seen his better days.
His life was quickly slipping by,
you saw it in his face.
No more time to testify,
his life would soon be o'er.
He left me with so many thoughts,
but soon he'd be no more.
Once upon a stormy night,
Duke vanished from his place.
Like an angle from above,
he left without a trace.
Perhaps his time had finally come,
his soul, a new dog made.
With mournful eyes and stories told,
and other times replayed.
Daniel Parks