From poor beginnings of Irish stock
Like many a man since and before
He married his bosses daughter
Owning the small factory down to the door.
A man of wealth built from work
He continued to work until
He felt he possessed enough of wealth
And middle aged retired to Edge Hill.
Always a little eccentric
Well known and liked in his day
Memories of a childhood of poverty
From his mind never went away
He gave work to many in hair brained schemes
For which many called him a fool
100 grand in 35 years
Spent building tunnels neath Liverpool.
On warm days the workers were sent beer
On cold: hot chocolate to keep them warm
And as a man of money
Many others around him did swarm.
Al of his friends for whom he must cater
He decided a banquet to throw
Where each man could eat his fill
And after it, his friends he would know.
He led them all into the basement
They were shocked when they saw their seat
Hard benches at a workhouse style table
And they were stunned when they were given to eat
For each got gruel and hard ships biscuits
Their own eyes they could not believe
And most let it be known they were highly insulted
And of the banquet promptly made leave.
Of the sorry few remaining were eating
Sitting alone or in pairs
Were addressed: "I now know my real friends,
Pray, follow me up the stairs."
And there to their further amazement
On tables, over laden, was laid
A sumptuous banquet there for them
For devouring: all that was displayed.
Maybe God is like Joe Williamson
And we are all of his friends
For he has all that we want
When of this life, we reach its end.
And our life's trials are the first banquet
To give us trials we call God cruel
And we turn from him like the house guests
When they were served the ship biscuits and gruel.
Those who put up with trials and suffering
And at the the banquet decide to suffer and stay
Eat the fare of life that is offered
And on the host, do not turn away
They will be rewarded
When the false friends have gone
Banquet with all in Heaven
And will be with God as one...
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