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Seven more join the throng
That mob the pearly gates
Like every other soul they see,
They know not yet their fates.

With no less fear, nor shame, regret,
They solemnly move forward,
Neither pushing forward eagerly,
Nor running from reward,

Be it great or terrible.
They seven are resolved
To accept whatever crops
They've sown while in the world,

While those around them push and shove,
Some toward and some away,
Some who try avoiding wrath,
Some who wished for judgement day.

But as these seven make their ways,
The ground begins to hush.
They turn to see the newcomers,
And halt their frenzied rush.

They watch these seven silently march,
In uniform raiment,
With little flags and little ships,
From whence they all were sent,

Their heads held high and shoulders back,
Their dignity intact.
The masses stare forever on,
Not knowing how to act.

Then one fine gent of elder years
Cries out across the field,
"Make way! Make way, for Heroes come!
Surely, we must yield!

Whatever God has left for us
And for these seven brave,
We honor them as they deserve,
While we still be men!"

And all who hear the call step back,
It travels like a wind,
Until a path is fully cleared
From these seven to the end.

So the seven march on down the way,
Unhindered by the rest,
Their quiet nobility precedes,
And deep respect shines back.

As they pass, the spell holds fast,
For only moments few,
And when they pass on out of sight,
The chaos does ensue.

But seven more join the ranks
Of heroes among men.
They have our praise and our respect,
No matter what God has for them.