Home,
when I was only a boy,
was wherever my parents and siblings were;
always warm and cozy and safe.
Though sometimes we were ragged and poor,
we got by quite well enough.
Home,
when I was a young married adult,
was where my wife and children were.
Not just a place to "hang my hat",
but a place of love and warmth,
a place worth coming back to every day.
Home,
in my middle years,
was the place which my wife kept cheery.
With all the children gone we were free,
to do much as we pleased on any given day,
and life was pleasant, rich and worth living.
Home,
after she was taken away,
was just a place to lay my head at night.
Always lonely, often dreary, and much the poorer;
the heart of it was gone and the warmth turned cold,
because all the cheer within had died.
Home,
in my solitary widower years,
has once again become my favorite place,
where I always feel warm and cozy and safe.
And though hampered somewhat by my old age,
I still get by quite well enough.
But home,
when I come to my final day,
will be the warmest, the coziest, the safest yet.
When the Lord says "My son, it is time",
I will leave this world to live with Him,
and then I will be truly at home at last.