When death stalks life all men will hope
with mortal fear, for mercy grope;
they're just a sign of things to come,
when death's cold claw beats fate's black drum.

Our souls seek through perception's eyes
yet foggy lenses smear that prize.
How can we know when souls will glean
from shadowed wraiths not what faith's seen.

We all believe when in death's trench,
so, mock away, tomorrow's wench;
we're all just pawns in life's dark race;
our pride can't save from self's disgrace.

I feel vexation's hoary hand,
upon soul's brow, its cruel brand;
it burns, it hurts, no refuge found,
I can't escape its mocking sound.

Yes, deep within I feel pride's quill
write epitaphs upon my will;
but somewhere deep I feel God's kiss,
to brush heart's brow...salvation's bliss.

If God be true then all pride's lies
are washed away by Jesus' cries;
I'm hid, I'm hid, by all that's good,
that crimson stream of Jesus' blood.

R.Owen 12/06/2016