Smith, Dereck Decoursey

Smith, Dereck Decoursey
04 Sep
2018

Dereck Decoursey Smith, better known as “Jah D”, of Redman’s Village, St. Thomas, second Brother of Twelve Tribes of Israel of Barbados, Son of the late Patricia Smith and Byron Clarke, Brother of Rosalind Arthur and Mark Smith, Uncle of Kimberley Arthur, Markayla Yearwood, Markeem and Ariel McIntosh, Kemani Arthur-Burnett and Kyila Atkins, Nephew of Greta, Peggy, Gloria, Sandra, Robert, Worman, Patrick, DePearl and Rodney, Cousin of many, Brother-in-law of Trevor Arthur and Janice Smith, Relative of the Smith, Stuart and Corbin families, Friend of Wofie, Curtis Knight, Ralph Alleyne, the Ellis family, Twelve Tribe and many others


The funeral of Dereck Decoursey Smith leaves Lyndhurst Funeral Home, Passage Road, St. Michael onSaturday, August 11th, 2018, for the Western Light Church of the Nazarene, Oxnard, St. James, where relatives and friends are asked to meet at 10:00 a.m. for the service. The cortege will then proceed to St. James Cemetery for the interment.

Flowers may be sent to Lyndhurst Funeral Home no later than 7:00 a.m. on Saturday.


The body of Dereck Decoursey Smith will repose in The Colin Parkinson Memorial Chapel, Lyndhurst Funeral Home from 4:00 p.m. until 6:00 p.m. on Friday.


Condolences may be sent to www.lyndhurstfuneralhome.com

  • Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
    Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.   Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightening they Do not go gentle into that good night.   Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.   Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night.   Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.   And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.