Men of Stone

The autumn air was crisp and clean, the leaves not yet fallen by the wind, I sat reminded of yesteryears, and the solidity of the past. Things unmovable, present to past, times unyielding advance, and men much better than I. Purposed, I resolved, not fail them in our present travails. 

High upon a hill, a dome, they ride perpetually into the past, carved on the grey stone of a mountain in Georgia. Magnificent in deed, in honor, timeless in their heroism, never doubting in their cause. Ever reminding we mere mortals in their immortality. 

Almost from the day of my birth, these titans have graced this place. My heroes, carved in stone. 

Davis, the rock of resolve until his dying day, through trial, poverty, obscurity, resting in a garden of stone in Richmond, beloved father of a nation, killed in its infancy. 

Lee, guardian of honor, treasurer of wisdom, saddened in defeat, quieted in his all too short of days, reposed in his sarcophagus of stone, in the halls of knowledge he rescued.

Stonewall Jackson, purposed to serve our Lord, predestined in victory, recalled to greater service all too soon, buried among his family, beneath a statue of stone. 

And one other, not too far from that mountain, my father, brave Carolinian, as many before, called into service for his home, battled hardened, yet gentle servant to all those that had a need, buried in the sand he loved, marked by a common headstone among his brothers.

All my heroes are men of stone. 

God save the South.