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
