Tuesday, November 19

Our lives are but a vapor
and yet we worry so
The countless hours
are chipped away
by the hammer of our worry
leaving only a frail stick
for our old age
on which we rest our burdens
driving them down the stake

Saturday, November 9

When death comes like a thief in the night,
taking a life, snuffing a light
We hang our heads and wear our mourning clothes
Though, we do not grieve like those who have no hope
The specter of death might give us a fright
But long through our lives we know what is right
Our dead are not dead
They are people asleep
For this very reason there is hope to keep