I walk the sunrise quiet pines,

mid whispering winds that near beside

 brave silently the trembling sound:

Oh death where is your sting?

–

The grass grows hearty—little lives

nurtured in the womb of earth

so shortly short, now green, now brown

Oh death, is this your sting?

–

Droplets mist the eyes of day

as grey-cloud silence looms in shade

and here midst thunderclaps of rain

Oh death this is your sting!

–

Down the cliffs, where water pounds

in turbulent and frothing mouths

now swirling out in calm toward sea.

Oh death, how short your sting

–

for sun rays golden in the west

the land where golden light attests

that all is good on Jesus’ breast.

Oh death, where is your sting?

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Photo by Lucas Costa: https://www.pexels.com